Fluoxetine Hydrochloride
by volitaire
Summary: PostRent. Mark is one poignant s.o.b.
1. The Countdown

**Author's Note:** _Here- __Another story, hot off the press._

_ ...Because fanfiction is crack, simply put. I've cashed in my life savings and sold my car for another hit. I've got this nervous twitch... gotta squeeze in another epic before school's commencement... _

_With that said, and on a completely less h__umorous note_, _t__his story is dedicated to (and inspired by) the beautiful ensemble of string instruments accompanying Mark during the OBCR of 'Halloween'. That piece of music is seriously one of the saddest __concertos_ _ever written. Before you begin, go and get out your CD and listen to those violins. Then cry. Then pay tribute to Jonathan Larson. Then read this story. Thanks._

--------------------

-

_January 3rd. 5:02 a.m._:

I am asleep.

_5:02 and three seconds_:

I am still asleep.

It's an accomplishment.

_5:03 a.m._:

The radiator hisses, sending a thick wave of heat into my nostrils.

_Click-click-click-hisssss…_

_5:03 and seven seconds. _

_Eight seconds._

The radiator grinds out wafts of heat in slow, noisy intervals.

_5:03 and eleven seconds_:

I roll onto my side. I am still sleeping. _Click-click-click-hisssss…_

_5:06 a.m_.:

The light in the apartment across the alley turns on, illuminating the flowers in the pot on the balcony. _5:06 and three seconds_. They are withered and buried in snow. The flowers, too, are asleep. _Click-click-click-hisssss…_

The room is toasty. I roll to my other side, kicking the blankets to bunch around my ankles.

It's too hot in here.

_5:07 a.m_.:

The flowers on the balcony jiggle. Early morning breeze from the Hudson. Snow tinkles off their crusty, shriveled petals.

They wish they were in here with me.

_5:07 and twenty-nine seconds._

In my sleep, I set my jaw, causing the artery in my neck to protrude slightly. _Click-click-click-hisssss…_

_5:07 and fifty-five seconds._:

Condensation begins to form on the inside of my window. The view of the flowers distorts in the moisture.

_5:08 a.m._

My eyelids flutter.

_5:08 and twelve seconds_:

_Click-click-click-hisssss…_

_5:08 and forty-three seconds_:

I flip onto my back, emitting a loud and distressed exhale. A cloud moves over the moon. _5:09 a.m._

_Click-click-click-hisssss…_

_5:09 and four seconds_:

_Click-click-click-hisssss…_

_5:09 and nine seconds_:

_Click-click-click-whirr…_

_5:09 and thirteen seconds_:

_Click-click-click-hisssssss- _**thunk**.

_5:10 a.m. _

The final speeding molecules of that last blast of heat pass over my exposed chest.

_5:10 and fifteen seconds_:

The floorboards leak heat. A chill begins to spread across the floor, starting from the hallway exit.

_5:10 and eighteen seconds_:

I exhale again, my troubled breath coming out in a white, frosty cloud.

_5:10 and twenty seconds_:

I shiver.

The blankets rumple between my legs. _Click-click-click-click…5:10 and twenty-four seconds._

My eyes shoot open. _5:10 and twenty-five seconds._

I am awake.

The heater is _off_.

_5:10 and thirty-three seconds_:

I touch my bare feet down to the frozen floor. Not at all groggy, or even remembering that I was just asleep, I stand up and wander to the heater.

_5:11 a.m._

"Fuck!" I curse, a bit too loudly. I wince and duck to see if Roger stirs across the hall.

All is quiet.

I punch the grates of the radiator with the side of my fist. The _heater_ is off.

_5:11 and thirty-seven seconds_:

I grab my shoulders and hug myself. I wander to my dresser, yanking out a pair of flannel pajama pants and a thick navy blue sweatshirt.

_5:12_:

I hastily pull them on.

"Fuck." I snarl again, running my hand through my hair.

I flop down in the wicker chair next to the window, drawing my legs up beneath me.

I keep my hand on my head, leaning my elbow on the phone table.

_5:12 and seven seconds._

"Fuuucccckkk…" I moan, for the third time, involuntarily shivering.

_5:12 and thirty seconds_:

I do something unexpected-

I begin to cry.

First, I sniffle, wiping my nose with my sleeve.

Then, I can't hold it in and I bite my lower lip and arch my back, temple throbbing below my hairline.

It's 5:12 and forty-six seconds, and I drop my head in my hands and all-out sob, mushing my eyes with my palms, shoulders shaking.

Oh fuck. Ohh fuck.

Not again.

I jump up, still gnawing at my lip, and quickly close my bedroom door.

So Roger doesn't hear.

_5:13._

I grab a chunk of hair in my fist and tear at it in agony, using my other hand to slowly punch the window frame.

_Thud... Thud... Thud... Thud..._ I don't know what time it is.

I stop crying, but I continue to go at the window.

_Thud... Thud.. Thud. Thud, thud, thud, thudthudthudthudthudTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD_ **THUD**! Harder and faster until finally a splinter catches the side of my hand and tears my skin. Blood flows freely from my hand, and this seems to shake me from my frustrated trance.

I bring my bleeding hand to my mouth and suck at the side of my pinky, sitting back down in the wicker chair. All is quiet for several minutes while I am deep in thought.

I shake my head to clear my mind, narrowing my eyes at the bedside table.

Where are my glasses?

I grab for their outline with my bloody hand, smearing the right lens and nosepiece. Fucking klutz.

This sets something off inside me again and I squeeze the side of the table, swallowing hard.

I sigh.

I stand up. Barefoot and freezing, I walk to the doorframe and flip on the light.

I glance at the clock. _5:15._

I pace.

_5:17._

I grab a tissue from the box on the bookcase behind my bed and wrap it around my hand.

I pace.

_5:19._

I sit back down in the wicker chair, reaching out towards the drawer under the phone table.

My fingers close around the knob, but then I withdraw my hand and put it in my lap.

No.

Do it.

I reach out again quickly, heaving the drawer open and thrusting my hand inside. At the same time I grab the phone, furiously punching in the phone number.

'You're a failure Mark.' I tell myself as the other end rings twice, three times, then the recording of a woman.

"Hello and thank you for calling Empire State Pharmacy. If you are calling from a touch-tone phone, please press one now-" One.

"To hear our location and pharmacy hours, please press one. To refill a prescription, please press two. To speak directly with a pharmacist please press-" Two.

I'm a fucking failure.

The phone rings again. I take my hand out from the side drawer and out comes the orange pill bottle.

"Please state the name on your prescription bottle, and then press pound."

I sighed.

"Mark Cohen." Pound.

"Please enter the ten-digit code found on the side of your prescription bottle, and then press pound."

2-5-8-7-5-8-7-8-0-6. Pound.

There was a long pause, and then the recording said, "Thank you-_Mark Cohen_- for using Empire State Pharmacy's automated touch-tone refill system. The prescription for-_Mark Cohen_-2587587806-has been successfully completed. You can pick up your refill of-" I hung up.

You're a fucking failure Mark.

I sighed.

_5:25._

I replace the pill bottle back in the drawer. I remove my glasses and set them back on the bedside table, not bothering to clean off the dried blood.

Blind, I fumble for the light switch and crawl back into bed.

Sunlight begins to rise over the neighboring apartment. The snow on the flowers twinkles.

I pull my blanket over my head and ball up, shivering. The flowers don't want to be in here with me now.

I rock back and forth. I find myself in the fetal position.

I close my eyes.

_5:29._

My breathing becomes normal…Slower…

_5:42 a.m_.:

I am asleep.

It's an accomplishment.


	2. The Hill

_ Though I than he may longer live,_

_He longer must than I,_

_For I have but the act to kill-_

_Without the power to die._

_-Emily Dickinson_

-----------------------------------

I put the coffee pot on the burner, and soon it erupts into a boil, the sound of the bubbling brew floats into Roger's room from the kitchen, and the smell of the dark, rich beverage arouses Roger from his light sleep.

I bang around noisily, swearing as a pan drops off its hook and yelping as it falls on my foot.

Fucking klutz.

In the next room, Roger rises slowly, pulling on a sweatshirt over his pajama top, and wandering into the main living space.

I'm on my tiptoes, reaching into the top cabinet for a three-quarters-gone box of stale Cheerios. Behind me, Roger scratches his head and yawns loudly.

I turn around, spoon clenched between my teeth, bowl under one arm and Cheerios in the other.

"Morning." I manage between the spoon.

Roger sneezes and steps back.

I spit the spoon onto the counter, dumping the bowl and box after it.

"Bless you." I reply. "They turned off the heat last night. The stove's not working. No roast for us this morning." I suppose I was joking, but my statement was so monotone I barely even caught my own sarcasm.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to look chipper. My smile strained, and my exhaustion peeked through in the form of dark circles under my eyes.

"Yeah." Roger said half-heartedly, poking at his own puffy bags.

He snuck a glance at me from around the cereal box.

"…Hey! What happened to your glasses?"

"Huh?" I looked up at him, mouth full of Cheerios. "My wha-?"

"Your glasses. Have-blood on them…"

"Oh!" I yelp, swallowing quickly. Shit.

I push the stool out from under me, nervously scraping at the glass with my thumbnail.

"Oh, this- yeah…that was from, um, I, the camera, it- cut me yesterday and I didn't have a chance, um- the camera." I spoke too fast. Nervously.

Roger nodded tenderly.

"Oh. Ow. You're- okay then?"

"Yes. I'm _fine_." I snapped.

Roger stepped back again.

"Uh- I mean, it's okay, see? They're clean now. Want some coffee?"

Roger sighed. "Yes please. That'd be great."

He poured himself a cup and raised it, and in a sing-songy voice said, "A toast. To Benny- World's greatest landlord and friend, bringing heat and wealth and security no matter the circumstance."

I wasn't sure if he said this for his own benefit, or to cheer me up, but it certainly didn't work.

Here I go again.

I stood up, abandoning my soggy cereal, tossing the stool aside and stomping away to my room, slamming the door behind me.

Outside, Roger stood up too, looking hurt and puzzled. He put up his hands.

"What did I say?"

I put my forehead to the doorframe.

Roger finished his coffee and cleaned up the kitchen. I sat with my back to the door, head slumped to my chest.

Not again, not again, not again…

--

Two hours later Roger knocks.

"Do you wanna come visit Mimi with me?"

What a fucking brilliant question.

Roger waits for a reply.

He can keep waiting.

"Mark, are you in there?" He taps his knuckle gently against the door and turns the knob. I am still sitting with my back to the door.

"Mar- whoops!" Roger lets go of the handle and steps back. "Whoa. What are you doing on the floor?"

I stare at him.

"Um…do you- want to come see Mimi?"

No, not really.

Not ever.

What makes you think I can handle that, Roger?

I sigh.

"Sure. Let me get dressed."

I pull myself from the ground, standing slowly. The backs of my knees are asleep.

I stumble.

"You can go warm up the car. I'll be down in a second."

He nods. I force a smile.

_Going to visit Mimi_. Like old times.

A long time ago that would've meant the CatScratch. Before we knew her.

Then it meant her apartment. Then it meant her room. Then it meant her hospital bed.

I pulled on my coat.

It was cold at the cemetery.

--

I approach the car and slide in next to Roger.

He smiles at me.

He's not doing such a great job of hiding whatever's going on inside.

He smiles because it's automatic. He's running on empty.

Lately, he only has two facial expressions: Smiling and dying.

I prefer this one.

Roger pulls out from the curb in silence.

I catch a glance at his face.

From the side, I hardly recognize him. A large black lesion has spread from his temple to the corner of his eye. I scowl. I want to wipe it off. I don't want to have to sit next to it.

"…Do you want me to drive?"

He looks over at me briefly.

"No, I got it."

Polite conversation. What to say next?

"I didn't bring flowers or anything…"

Let him know you care, Mark…

"It's the thought that counts. Thank you for coming."

He cares.

"Yeah." I sigh and twiddle my thumbs. My index finger brushes against the scab forming on my pinky and I flinch my arm.

Fuck.

Here it comes again. My stomach feels sick.

I set my jaw.

I turn to stare at the side of Roger's face. He's concentrating intently on the road, but he breaks his stare to look at me.

"What?"

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He sighs angrily through his nose. "Mark, if I wasn't okay I wouldn't be up and about. I wouldn't be driving. I wouldn't be going to-" His voice cracks. "Visit her."

I nod and try to understand.

"Are _you_ okay?" Roger asks.

My stomach does a flip. I want to smash my head against the windshield.

"No. Yes. I'm okay."

What reason did I have to feel shitty?

I wasn't dying of A.I.D.S. I didn't lose _two_ girlfriends. I didn't withdraw and rebound and withdraw. I didn't run away from my problems only to come back and have things end up worse. Hell, I even had the heater in my room, running for the coldest part of the night. That was unfair, considering if Roger caught a chill it'd probably kill him. I laughed.

Then my mouth snapped shut.

Roger stared at me again.

I swallowed a snicker, removing my glasses and rubbing my eyes.

You're a fucking failure Mark.

--

We parked on the small inland road lining the hill.

Roger got out of the car, closing the door gently.

I slammed mine and Roger sent me a scolding look.

Whoops. Be respectful Mark. There's dead people here.

"Like they can really hear me…" I said under my breath.

"What?" Roger turned.

"Oh, nothing." I never have anything important to say.

Roger climbed the hill, glancing around from the top.

Oh, this place. What beautiful memories this brings flooding back.

How did I get here- how the hell?

Ha. Was I fucking _stupid_?

I got here because I _put_ myself here. And so did the other thousand people buried six feet underground. I snorted. I wasn't so far off.

If I could be so lucky.

I clambered up after Roger, slipping in the snow.

Mimi was buried two tombstones away from Angel.

Her best friend.

I glanced at Roger a few feet ahead of me. How far apart will we be Roger? How long after you're in will they be measuring the distance?

Roger drops to his knees in front of the headstone.

I wish he wouldn't kneel in the snow with only jeans on.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

Let him know you care, Mark…

He takes hold of my wrist and cries.

I plant my feet firmly and stare out across the endless rows of people... and I roll my eyes.

Roger shakes beneath me.

This is why I don't come.

-

The bells toll in the steeple.

Ten 'o clock.

I am awake.

It's an accomplishment.


	3. The Nothing

_Much madness is divinest sense,_

_To a discerning eye;_

_much sense the starkest madness._

_-Tis the majority,_

_In this, as all, prevails,_

_Assent, and you are sane;_

_Demur- you're straightway dangerous,_

_And handled with a chain._

_-Emily Dickinson_

_-------------------------------------_

Who was I? What was I becoming? What was I doing to myself?

Before, it was only brief moments of confusion. Now there were such huge lapses in sanity I was getting worse at fighting off what I was uncertain of. My true emotions distorted and something from the depths of my soul- something born in ill repute- seized the person I knew. An unpredictable tug-of-war. The real Mark Cohen was slipping out of sight and falling from grace.

And so is life.

--

"Collins?"

"This is Tom."

"It's Mark."

"Hey! Aw- Mark, how're ya doing?"

"…I...visited...Angel today..." You fucking asshole.

Silence on the other end.

"…Oh. Oh, um, okay…Uh- h- how is she…?"

I laughed out loud, into the phone.Well, I imagine she's fucking rotted to dust by now Collins!

"She's- she's good." I bit back laughter.

"Good to hear it- uh, Mark? Why are you calling?"

What? I can't call my friend?

"I don't know."

"Oh. Well, I'm kinda busy right now. I'll call you back later if you still have something you need to say."

"Yep. Sure." It was like he knew. He was hanging up because he knew I was going to insist on being an asshole.

I slammed down the receiver.

Now what was I going to do? I'm stuck in this fucking loft with no one to talk to.

Oh yeah.

There's Roger.

I'm done interacting with Roger for today. Let him suffer in his room by himself.

I check the temperature outside. Twenty degrees. The sun's behind a cloud. There's a wind chill.

...A perfect day for a walk...

Pacing this loft makes me claustrophobic. There's nothing to do here but listen to Roger play the Fender.

I wonder what will happen to it once he's gone.

I know!

I'll chop it up and use it for firewood. I'm going to need it.

I check the inside temperature. Thirty-five degrees.

It's an accomplishment.

--

Where am I going to go?

I shuffle around on the ice at the bottom of the stoop.

New York City. How fucking claustrophobic.

Everything and nowhere to go. Everything and nothing. Nothing and the Empire State Pharmacy.

You're a fucking failure Mark.

--

"Where did you go?"

"Santa Fe."

"That's not funny. I got worried."

"For a walk."

"In this weather?"

"It's only fifteen degrees colder than it is in here."

"I can't afford to have you catch a cold!"

"You also can't afford the heating bill…"

"Yeah, I realize that. And that's why-"

"And you also can't afford your AZT."

"Mark- ?"

"Or Medicare."

"Okay, whoa! Shut up! What the fuck? Yeah, I _know_. And that's why you shouldn't take walks in the freezing weather! We've got to be more careful-"

I tuned him out. My mind was elsewhere.

My eyes glazed over.

"…Mark are you listening?"

"Huh?"

He sighed and frowned. The lesion wrinkled in his worry lines. I set my jaw.

"What was it like?"

"_Huh_? What was _what_ like?"

"Santa Fe. Tell me about it."

Roger shot me a sideways glance.

Mark is crazy.

"It was lonely. I had to come back. I don't want to think about it."

"No, tell me."

"About me or about the city?"

"What did you think about?"

"Mark, I don't want to go back to th-" He sighed. "Home. Here. Mimi. April. Angel. You. Life. I thought about life. What else was there to think about? It was a desert. There was nothing. Even back, even now, I have nothing."

Roger's second facial expression: Dying.

"I thought about- I thought there was hope back here. I wrote- I wrote a song. I got it out of me. There was nothing in Santa Fe. There was nothing in New York. And then there was nothing inside of me."

"Weird." I said.

"What's weird?"

"I was just thinking about that while I was walking. That- there's nothing. Where is there _something_?"

"Huh?"

"Well if there's _nothing_ everywhere then where is there _something_?"

"Oh, Mark, don't think like that. Maybe that came out wrong. My life _felt_ empty, but I had Mimi to come home to. And all of you. There's _something_ everywhere. You just have to look for it. Why am I explaining this to you? Aren't you a filmmaker?" The broken smile.

I rubbed the scar on my pinky and thought.

"Not- not so much anymore…I don't…" I didn't have to explain anything to Roger.

He stared at me in disbelief.

"What? _Why_?"

"I don't know." I was getting insecure. I had to get up.

"No- Mark- wait!" Roger stood and grabbed for my shoulder. "Are you serious? I haven't seen you with the camera lately, but I just thought-"

"I don't know Roger. I don't want to…talk…about…"

"Mark- ?"

"There's just- there's no one to film anymore, okay? I'm sick of all these shots of you."

I don't know if I meant that as humor or truth.

It didn't come out sounding like either.


	4. The Rendezvous

_I could tell you,_

_if I wanted to,_

_what makes me,_

_what I am._

_But I don't,_

_really want to,_

_and you don't,_

_give a damn._

_-Langston Hughes_

_---------------------------------_

Roger called Joanne- for my sake.

Because he was nosey.

Because he knew Joanne was sarcastic and straightforward and might be able to coax out whatever I was hiding.

Because he was worried about me.

...How sweet.

It was like a blind date.

Roger thought of telling her to meet me at the Life Café. The old haunt. More memories there than the cemetery. Happier memories.

Roger was smart. He scheduled the rendezvous at the Fifty-Fifth Street Deli. He told me to go buy milk. ..._Whoops_, look who it is...

-

"Hey Mark, fancy seeing you here!"

I told him not to call you- that's Roger- but should we talk since I'm here?

Sure, why not.

"Buying milk for the wife." I dangled the gallon in her face. Ha ha. I was funny. See Mark joke.

Joanne laughed, for real.

"How are the kids?"

"Well, little Sandy's come down with a nasty case of typhoid, and Timmy's stuck in a well. But otherwise, they're fine." Joke, Mark, joke. "And you?"

"Well, the wife's not feeling too well either."

"Maureen?"

"Who else? She's coming down with something. I'm getting her some shrimp fried rice. It's her version of chicken soup." She showcased a takeout container.

"Oh. Send my regards." Like I had regards for her pretensions ass.

We walked to the counter together.

The clerk scanned the milk's barcode.

$1.75.

I was short 50 cents.

...How embarrassing.

"Oh, n-nevermind. Here, I can stick it back in the cooler-"

"Mark." Joanne scolded, slapping two quarters on the counter. "Do you honestly think I'm here just to buy Chinese?"

"You're here to pick up my tab?"

"Yes- and to talk to you. Take your receipt. Come on Cohen, let's take a walk."

Outside, I leaned up against the window of Carnegie Deli.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Do you need to say anything?"

"Yes and no. Can I trust you?" I shifted the milk back and forth in my freezing hands.

"I'm a lawyer."

"…So I can't?"

We walked toward the Empire State Building.

"Do you want to take that home to Maureen first?" I asked, gesturing to the takeout container. "It's gonna get cold."

"She'll survive. We have a microwave."

"So your power's working?"

"Yes. Why? Yours isn't? Oh no. Benny."

"I assume. There- That's something I want to talk about. How it's thirty-five fucking degrees in the house and we can't even use the stove to light a candle."

"...No offense, but when _do_ you guys have power?"

I sighed. My first genuine spark of real laughter provoked by someone else.

"Good point. But you'd think- Benny knows about Roger... He wouldn't shut off the heat on us, especially when we're in a period when Roger can't afford medical insurance. Benny usually cranks the thing so high Smokey the Bear would be all over our asses before he could say 'forest fire'. Better safe than sorry...for...Roger. That's why it makes me think this is someone beyond Benny's control. Like it's the Grey's or something. Little Allison getting revenge on Benny's slips in business conduct. She's telling daddy to freeze us solid, the little snitch. Then they'll bulldoze the lot, ice cubes and all."

"We could investigate…?"

"I was going to wait until Monday. Roger's got all the extra blankets and I'm moving him into my room. I figure the majority of New Yorkers are home for the weekend, so they'll be sucking their heater's dry. By Monday, when everyone's back at work, Benny might be able to catch a break and reheat us up."

"Do you want to take that risk?"

"Roger will be fine. I promise."

"Are you sure? There's a case of the flu going around. Like I said, Maureen's got it too. It takes seven days for a full-fledged cold to-"

"_No_ Joanne. It's all right." I snapped.

"Whoa, whoa, sorry! I'm just worried about you guys."

I sighed. "Yeah. Thanks."

We walked silently for a few more blocks.

"Soo…where's your camera?" She tried to make it sound like she's just noticed I was only carrying the milk.

"Gee, for an accomplished lawyer you've got a horrible poker face… What did Roger say?"

"What do you mean? I just saw that…"

I stopped walking. "What did he say to you?"

"About everything or about the camera?"

"Hmm…lemme think. No- tell me what he concocted."

"Well, he called me up and told me he sent you to the deli for milk and he told me to catch you and act concerned."

"_Act_ concerned?"

"Well- no- I _am_ concerned. And then he explained that you've nixed the camera. I haven't seen you for a while, but now that I think about it the last time I saw you, you didn't have it either. Umm…what's up?"

I wanted to go home and punch Roger.

"Nothing. I just haven't felt like filming lately."

"Oh really? You'll have to do better than that."

"Listen, Ms. Shrink? I came out to buy milk, not bare my soul. I don't have to talk about it."

"But- but- Mark Cohen is to camera as fish is to water…"

"Bad analogy. I can breathe without my camera."

"But we can't."

"We?"

"Me and Roger and Maureen-"

"I just don't want to film anymore, okay!" I shouted. Several passersby stopped to stare. "Joanne, look. Thanks. Thanks, all right? I appreciate your valiant show of undercover work. But I'm- I gotta get home to Roger."

"Mark, if you need to talk about something…"

"I _know_ the drill. I can handle this myself."

With that, I turned around and stormed away.

Really? Could I handle it?

Not according to the label on my pill bottle I couldn't.

I twisted the plastic straps of the grocery bag so tightly they wore thin and snapped. The milk bounced across the sidewalk, and I had to pick it up and carry the thing home without gloves on.


	5. The Prospect

_When that which is,_

_and that which was,_

_Apart, intrinsic, stand,_

_And this brief tragedy of flesh,_

_is shifted like a sand._

_-Emily Dickinson_

_-------------------------------_

Roger was wrapped up like a caterpillar in four different blankets when I returned home. He rested his chin on the folds of the opening and stared blankly out at the wall. He blinked when I came in. I threw my keys on the counter and chuckled.

"Does someone need a cup of warm milk?"

"Yes please."

I sneered. "What? Are you _sick_? Get up and make it your_self_!"

Then I recoiled.

Whoa.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. What the _fuck_? Did _I_ just say that? I spun around to face the fridge and then back to Roger, putting a hand to my forehead. I inhaled.

"I…mean…I'll make it for ya…"

Another attempt to sound chipper. The unfamiliar Mark still clung to my words, slashing the apologetic tone and making me sound reluctant.

Roger strained to stand up, holding one of the blankets around his shoulders.

"...No, no, no, it's okay. If you don't want to I can make it. Besides Mark, we don't have any heat to make the milk warm anyway. You can sit down. I'll pour us milk." He said it as if it were some tedious chore.

I grabbed at the arms of my glasses and adjusted them in disbelief. Another malignancy had sprung up on Roger's chin. He caught me staring and poked at it.

He shivered.

"Beauty mark."

I groaned. I didn't even mean to show my worry out loud. But it slipped out and I groaned loud and long and fell down on the couch and cried, "Oh Roger please sit back down for gods sakes I'll make the milk!"

He stared at me. I fell silent and stared back. He narrowed his eyes.

"_What_ did I tell you?"

"Please sit down Roger..."

"What did I tell you- don't _do_ this to me! When you're scared, _I_ get scared! I'm fine. _Stop_ it. Just _let_ me make the milk."

I sat perfectly still.

Then I growled, "How long are we going to have to keep _pretending_ you're _fine_ Roger? How long? You're not fine. You're _not_ fine! Just…sit down!"

What was happening to me?

Roger stamped his foot. "I'm fine if you _believe_ I'll be okay! That's- _ha_- that's the only thing I _have_ right now Mark! Your hope. I'm keeping this fucking plague away with _faith_, not with medication! Don't lose it. Please don't lose it, you're all I have! I need you to be here for me. Because I don't _have_ anyone else-"

I threw up my hands and laughed.

"…And when you're gone who do you think _I'll_ have?"

"I'm not _going_ anywhere! You'll have _me_!"

I shut my eyes.

_And when I capture it on film will it mean that it's_… I grabbed the back of my head. Face reality. Come back Mark. He's dying. He's surviving. _You're_ dying. _Be_ there for him. Show him that you care!

Glowering, Roger hands me a cup of milk.

It's an accomplishment.


	6. The Culprit

_Either you can leave the past behind, _

_or give me something to disconnect my mind,_

_I sleep with my fists clenched tight,_

_when I don't lie awake at night._

_I guess time gave up the ghost too late._

_-Elvis Costello_

-----------------------------

...It's 2:35 in the afternoon.

I am asleep.

The phone rings.

It takes a second to register-

We have power...

-

"Hello?"

"…Is this Roger?"

"No. This is Mark."

"Oh."

"Who is- uh- would you like to talk to him?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

I switch lines. "ROGER! TELEPHONE!"

I switch back.

I eavesdrop.

"Hello?"

"Hey, um, Roger? It's Joe."

Roger hesitates and clears his throat.

"Hey."

"Um, hey. Um, how- how…are you?"

I grunt. Polite conversation. How do you _think_ he is, asshole?

"How do you _think_ I am, asshole?"

I laugh so hard I almost give myself away. Good 'ol Roger…

Joe regains his decorum and continues. "Well…I don't know how I think you are... That's why I'm calling."

"I'm okay. I'm…alive."

Joe says nothing.

"No really. I've _really_ been all right. Considering I can't afford any fucking medication. I think it's been more than a month now. And we haven't had heat the past three days-"

Joe 'ooh's in worry.

"…and _Mark's_ fucking flipped out! I don't know what the hell is up with him but he's been acting so suspiciously…I'd like to knock some self-control back into him…He's making me feel worse than this constant chill in my bones…"

He trails off.

Thanks Roger. Thanks.

Joe doesn't seem to have been listening.

"So…you're okay then? Because um, we want to, I was wondering…are you up for…do you want to try and play another show this week?"

_Stupid_.

Roger is quiet.

"…Do you have somewhere to-?"

"Yes Roger, we're just waiting for you. We want you here. We know you want to be here-"

"Oh fuck yes I want to be there-"

"Can you? I mean, physically _can_ you? Ha- fuck- I know mentally you're up for it…but…"

"Joe, I want to come _so_ bad." Roger laughs.

"If you're giving the green light man… Just don't make it like last week."

"I'm… not going to tell Mark… He won't…let me. But…He doesn't have any say in what I do! Sometimes…_lately_…I think he's just counting down…my days are numbered for him. He doesn't feel what I'm- fuck- why am I still talking about this? Where Joe? When? When are we playing?"

"Tuesday, eight 'o clock. Outside Fillmore East. Bring your Strat. You won't regret it."

"I try not to regret much. Thanks for calling."

"Yeah, man, I _knew_ you would! It's gonna be fuckin' _awesome_! Thanks man….Hey, take care of yourself."

"Fuck you."

"What? I'm serious! I want you there."

"Goodbye Joe."

-

…Oh _really_? He's not going to tell Mark?

What was wrong with Mark?

I stared at myself in the mirror next to my bookcase.

What did he think I was going to do? Tie him to a chair?

I scowled and ran my hand along my chin.

I wiped the corners of my mouth with my finger.

...Was I really getting that fearful for him? Shit. I can't let him go play a show! He's gonna catch fucking influenza and DIE! How is he going to go up in front of a crowd with his face looking like a goddamned Dalmatian? How is he going to SING? His lungs are so constricted…

I had to back off! I had to let this go. Let _him_ go. You're not his guardian angel! Maybe if you let up a little you won't be so uneasy… so shifty…so…so- I caught sight of my camera reflected in the glass. I lowered my hand from my mouth and turned around to stare at it.

Fuck.

There was that strange dropping sensation in my gut.

It looked so pathetic lying there on the table. What a pity. It was collecting dust…

I reached out to wipe it off and withdrew my hand, staring at the gray residue matted to my fingers. I shuddered.

I couldn't look at it anymore. That camera had seen too much.

As if someone else were controlling me, I got up to walk to the phone table drawer.

In went my hand...

...Out came the freshly filled bottle of pills.

I held it up to the light, gazing at the orange plastic prism the sun created.

Then I unscrewed the top, sifting a handful through my fingers and onto the table. I pushed them around with my thumb, one by one, over the edge of the table and back into the bottle, until there were two left.

-The recommended dose.

I already had a glass of water waiting next to the phone. Because I was a failure.

I popped them into my mouth, rolling them on my tongue, letting their bitter coating numb my jaw.

I raised my glass to the camera.

"Cheers, friend."

As I swallowed, the door opened.

Roger stepped in.

"Hey, I was wondering what you w-" He stopped and stared at the pill bottle on the table and the half-empty glass in my hand.

My eyes went wide and I shoved the prescription back into its hiding place.

"Mark-?"

"What? You were wondering what I was what?" I leaned against the knob, trying to look less red-handed.

Roger kept staring at the drawer.

I smiled, and a bit louder said, "Go on Roger, what were you saying? You were wondering what I was _what_?"

I waved my hand in front of his face to break his trance. He blinked and continued.

"W-what are you doing this Tuesday night?" He cocked his head but kept his eyes on the drawer.

Smugly, I swished the remaining water around in the glass, reclining back in the chair and crossing one leg over the other.

"Uhh…I don't know Roger…" I said, taking a small sip of the water.

I scratched my head thoughtfully and set the glass down.

"I think I'm in the mood for a concert…"


	7. The Assailant

**Author's Note**: _Yeah…so, uh, random poetry intervals. This one being "O Captain, My Captain" by Walt Whitman. _

_Mark's breakdown should be poetic... I'm attempting to do him justice by inserting literary masterpieces into his thoughts. Alas, poetry and tragedy sometimes do go hand-in-hand..._

_---------------------------------_

...Begin scene: Fillmore East nightclub, New York City, Tuesday night.

The players? Renegades and regulars to Manhattan's finest underground. They are the dejected and daring crowd I..._used_...to like to film. They are raring to go- to be expected, groveling at the feet of Roger's second attempt at a revival show. _His_ revival, in a way...

This is no Hungarians gig. Roger has since grown up and trudged through hell and back. There was an innovative and completely unfamiliar sensation to this entire event. But as always, Roger wasn't playing music. He was living it.

I smile.

The centerpiece? The stage, of course! With Roger at its helm. _Oh Captain, my Captain!_

_While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel, grim and daring…_

The storm of the moshpit rages beneath Roger's ship. Will he steer us home alive?

...The antagonist? A.I.D.S.

_But O heart! Heart! Heart! The bleeding drops of red…_

Navigate, Roger, navigate.

Enter Joe- First mate, bassist, port side. O Captain, he looks to you for the compass. You're playing too fast for his accompaniment. Quite frankly, you've taken the ship, Roger.

Play Roger, play. The waves crash beneath you. They worship you.

A single spotlight!

Starring: Roger Davis. A solo! Eyes closed, head back, he listens and lives each note. He has abandoned ship. He is outside himself, drowning in the waves cascading from his Stratocaster.

The chorus of the song climaxes. He's gaining speed.

Roger carefully grips the bridge of the guitar, gently yet furiously working the pick upwards.

I close my eyes, waiting to witness the exasperation through sound- the reason Roger was a musician.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I shiver. Every show, it never ceases to amaze me how majestic, how..._good _Roger is.

I open my eyes to capture the last haunting notes of the song, watching just in time as Roger's hand seems to miss the guitar's neck.

The pick flies from his fingers, almost in slow motion, and the backside of Roger's hand hits the strings, causing a terrible 'twang' of a noise. Seemingly at the same time, Roger stops singing to watch his pick twirl to the floor...

As it hits, Roger's knees buckle and he lurches forward, jaw smacking the mic stand- feedback deafening the crowd. The tidal waves- the moshpit- slowly ceases movement and turns as one to watch the guitarist fall toward them, Stratocaster whining uncontrollably in protest, and then 'crack'! snapping in half as Roger's body hits the stage, chin bouncing off the footlights, vomit spewing from his mouth...

"Roger!" I yell, running forward. _Where on the deck my Captain lies..._

Everyone else at the show has the same idea, and my passage to the stairs is blocked by the tsunami of panicking and concerned fans, all screaming in confusion.

Roger's drummer and bassist rush to his side, grabbing his arms. They hoist him to his knees, as security keeps the onslaught of people from rushing the stage.

Roger's eyes roll back in his head and he gurgles, white foamy spit mixed with brownish vomit trickles down his chin. He shakes and heaves again, yellowish puke running down his shirt and over the broken guitar that remains strapped over his shoulder...

Joe takes hold of his arms and the drummer grabs his feet, as they struggle to carry him to the stage door. Roger turns his head sideways, spewing blood all over Joe's arms.

"Noo!" I scream, ramming my shoulder into a man pushing ahead of me. I never was good at moshing…

I miraculously shove my way to the front of the crowd, bounding up the stage steps and standing face-to-face with a muscular security guard, who pushes my chest.

I bite my lip and glance frantically over the guard's burly shoulder as Roger disappears behind the curtain. The security guard seems to recognize me suddenly, moving ever so slightly to the right to allow me through.

I run, hard, nearly tripping over the fallen microphone, fumbling through the heavy curtain, screaming, "Roger!"

Joe is struggling to hoist the limp Roger into a chair as I stumble backstage, coughing, "Joe, you gotta go wipe off your arms! Let me take care of him!"

Joe yelps and flinches, grabbing for a sweat towel laid on a nearby vanity. Roger sputters a liquidy cough, and I run to his side and hold his head up so he will not choke...

The drummer dials 911.

Joe watches in disbelief, wiping crazily at his forearms with the messy little towel.

"Get a new fucking towel! Use soap and water!" I scream at him. Tears well up in my eyes. April all over again.

Roger moans quietly and shakes, teeth rattling. I hold his head steady as he froths, eyes glazed.

"What's goin' on Roger…?" I ask, almost angrily.

_My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still…_

I push Roger will all my might into a seating position, using my knee as a prop, sliding the slimy, broken guitar over Roger's head. His breathing begins to get faster, lungs constricting and filling with fluid. I hold his shoulders still.

Joe returns, arms glistening with water, eyes wild.

"You TOLD us you could handle this SHOW!"

Barely cognizant, Roger tears himself from my grip, lunging at Joe's legs, pulling them out from under him.

"Roger!" I yell, diving for my best friend just as he loses consciousness.

I half kneel, squatting with Roger in my arms, for fifteen minutes, until the paramedics arrive. They take Roger from me, pulling us apart...

Then they examine me for any open wounds, cleaning off my hands and forearms.

Roger lays quietly on a stretcher, paramedics reviving him with a manually pumped oxygen mask, his face devoid of color.

_O Captain, my Captain. Exult o shores, and ring o bells…_


	8. The Obscurity

_It was never  
simple to wait,  
to sit quiet._

_Was there still  
another way round,  
a distance to go –_

_as if an echo  
hung in  
the air before_

_one was heard,  
before a word  
had been said._

_-Robert Creeley _

_-----------------------------------_

Pacing: An automatic response to a simple stimulus, which does not require mental processing. One of the various ways the human body deals with its affliction of mental anguish or distress. Categorized with other reflexive responses- nail biting, uncontrolled sweating, nervous twitches, extraction from speech or conscious thought, dilation of the pupils, wringing of the hands…et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Thus far, my body has chosen two very _stupid_ ways of dealing with situations of painful suspense; pacing being one of them.

To clarify, pacing is tiresome, especially for someone who is both physically and mentally exhausted. There are so many more effective ways of getting exercise. Whatever ethereal force was controlling my legs obviously was blind to the fact that I was tired, and that walking back and forth, back and forth, _back_ _and_ _forth_ in this stupid hallway was not providing an ounce of rest. And pacing was pointless. It did not contribute to helping the suspenseful situation in any way shape or form. Pacing requires almost rhythmic, evenly-spaced steps. If I wanted to take rhythmic, easily-spaced steps, I would've enrolled myself in tap lessons. In fact, I'd rather be dancing than pacing. And pacing worked no wonders in terms of the condition of one's shoes. Again, endless cycles of back and forth wasn't exactly adding rubber to my soles. I couldn't afford to walk much more than I already did. I didn't own a car. The nearest subway entrance was five blocks from my apartment, and I hadn't the money for a new pair of shoes for over a year now. I didn't desire to wear them down any further. And at the very most, pacing makes one even more agitated than the initial anxiety that induced the pacing! I swear, if I pass that same picture of a little girl picking flowers ONE MORE TIME I am going to straight up hack off my legs. But then, since it is my body's natural selection to constantly move about in times of distress, I'd probably strain my arms and slide myself to and fro in my own trail of blood, using my severed legs as ski poles. For heaven's sake Mark, sit _down_.

The bottom of my left shoe has torn halfway off and is flapping fixatedly with every footfall. It ticks on the rubbery floor of the hospital, keeping a steady rhythm to accompany the abject, soprano 'squeak', 'squeak', 'squeak' the bases of my shoes are emitting. It makes for one damned annoying song.

'_Flapflap' 'SQUEAK' 'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK' 'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK'!_

Dear Lord, and I need a change of scenery.

_Vinyl chairs, fern in pot, girl picking flowers. Vinyl chairs, fern in pot, girl picking flowers. Vinyl chair, fern in pot, girl picking flowers_…

It's times like these I really want to hurl myself from the open window of a thirty-story building. Fortunately (unfortunately?) Roger's room is on the first floor.

This was not the first time I'd embedded my footprints into the hallway of this A.I.D.S. ward. I'd much prefer that this was the time two months ago. At least then I had the lobby off to my right. At least the scenery changed every few minutes when new patients were admitted and assigned rooms, or when lovers or friends or nurses came to drop by for a visit. And once and a while a person was wheeled through on a stretcher, temporarily causing me to stop my pacing and stand immobile, to the side, to let the doctors pass. It was a nice little break.

But now, there was only the glowing floor below me, the fluorescent lights above me- blaring a constant, migraine-inducing white, the chairs and plant to my right, picture and blank wall to my left, and, when I completed the ellipse, vice versa.

Fuck, this was boring... And irritating. And if I had a seat I'd be on the edge of it. Too bad the floor didn't have an edge. Fuck the thirty-story window. I'd dive right over into the chasm and fall and fall and fall until I was absorbed by the darkness.

The darkness.

Hmm...

Oh, fuck that too! I've had enough of this 'falling into darkness.' When and if I'm finally able to stop this pacing, the darkness will begin to creep up from beneath me and eventually obstruct my vision so I stumble and fall and be engulfed, and the only light in that damned vertical, tentative tunnel that forms is the strangely luminous prism of that orange plastic pill bottle.

'Go toward the light.' How fucking _overrated_.

I mean, Angel told Mimi to turn away from it! And that saved her for like, two seconds. Ha. I don't hear Angel telling me _shit_. So I'll go toward whatever the fuck I want. That weak little orange glow is a hell of a lot more comforting then that black abyss.

...I'm fucking scared...

And annoyed. STOP PACING MARK!

I place my hand on the wall and hold myself still. I get dizzy. So I pace.

'_Flapflap' 'SQUEAK' 'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK'_…

I hear someone coming. Ooh, company!

A stretcher, occupied by a writhing, moaning, plague-infested shell of a man races past, his nurses barking at one another to stabilize this breathing, review his medication chart…

I stare at his blackened, hollowed cheeks as he wheels past, stare at his bleeding tongue that he has bitten, accidentally, in the process of fighting for his life. He holds up his skeletal hand, reaching, grabbing, failing…

I stop pacing. I stop and stare and watch him disappear behind the doors of the patient elevator.

I grab the wall again.

Steady Mark, steady.

My stomach drops.

My hope drops.

My hand drops.

The floor rushes up towards my face, its reflective, scuffed panels careening at grueling speeds.

Well, isn't this just fine and dandy? I'm falling into darkness anyway.


	9. The Response

_In 48 frames from a movie on the cutting room floor,  
you said, "True meaning would be dying with you",  
and though I wanted to, I did not smile.  
But now I will give up on this wall that I have fought with,  
never uncover meaning behind our rich words._

_-The Weakerthans_

_-----------------------------------------_

When I regain consciousness, I am on some type of bed.

Next to me, Roger is singing. The song is unclear.

All that matters is that he's singing, which means he's breathing, and he's awake, and he's _alive_.

I open my eyes.

We're still at the hospital.

I'm on one of those retractable stretcher beds, and Roger is in his hospital gown, IV taped to his hand, oxygen tube up his nose, sitting upright in the hospital bed.

He stops singing.

Without looking at him, I can tell he's looking this way.

"…Roger, why am I on this thing?"

"You fainted in the hallway."

"Oh yeah… Why are you singing?"

"To entertain myself. Why did you faint?"

"…I got scared. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Why'd you get scared?"

"Because we're in an A.I.D.S. ward..."

"Dumb answer. I'm not scared."

"I didn't expect you to be... I hate this place."

"I hate it too. But I'm alive."

"Well thank _God_."

"…Did you faint because you thought I was dead?"

"No. I knew you weren't dead."

"Then why?"

"Because I saw another patient who was _about_ to die."

"Oh… How… how did you know?"

"I don't know… But I don't think I would've fainted otherwise."

He nodded.

At length he asked, "…Are you sure you're okay Mark?"

I restrained myself from snapping at him. I turned to face him, crossing my legs.

"Do you want the truth?"

"No. I'm asking you for my _health_."

"What do _you_ think?"

"I think no."

"What _do_ you think, exactly?"

"I don't know. But if you were really okay I don't think you would've fainted."

"Ah, clever."

"I know I am. Mark, look at me. Is it _me_ you're worried about?"

I hesitate to ponder a response. I come up short.

Roger repeats his question.

My stomach drops…but in a different, sorrowful way this time.

It feels like the _old_ Mark.

Roger's best friend.

I take hold of the guardrail on his bed and say, in all sincerity, "Roger- …if I could, I would trade my life for yours."

A brief hint of fear flashes across Roger's face, but he says nothing.

Then he smiles.

"I don't know how…you want me to respond to that, but Mark? I would do the same for you. I hope you know that. I...really don't know how else to respond to that... But _please_._ Don't_ worry about me, okay? No one needs to trade their life for anyone else's. It's just lately that I've been… There's enough worry…" He trails off. "I'm going to be okay."

"Roger, I don't want to… Oh God. I _can't_ lose you! I don't want to even have to see you like _this_-" I wave my hand at his pathetic figure. Then I bite my tongue to stop myself from crying. From rambling. He doesn't need to hear it. I don't want to hear myself.

I wring my hands in my lap. Roger clears his throat.

"M-…Mark? What were those pills-…?" He trails off again.

I _knew_ this was coming. Eventually.

I take the easy way out.

"…_What_ pills?"

My heart aches. I hate using Roger's vulnerability to manipulate him. I know he feels too needy, too…'pressured' to argue with me right now. He looks disappointed, but looks at his bed sheets and says nothing more. He knows to leave me alone about it.

--

I return home.

I return home and sit in the dark.

Alone.

I get up.

I turn on a light.

I pace.

What was the meaning of any of this?

Not even Roger could respond to that.

But being alone in this loft just wouldn't suffice.

It was one thing to be alone- I've had my share of solitude. Whether it be abandonment, by choice, by being forgotten, or overlooked, or ignored… - the majority of my life was just me myself and I. I was alone even when I was _with_ people- girlfriends, family, coworkers…but only because I _preferred_ to keep to myself. It was interwoven in my genetics- an intimate curse- to be isolated. I kept my feelings bottled up. Although my temper was short, it had its boundaries, and although I had many an opinion to express, rarely did I allow others to have revelations. It's not that I'm shy or quiet, but I simply like to watch others, the camera just being a redundant display of my introversion.

I never could decide if I preferred large groups or just a few close friends. Both had their upsides, but for me, the glass was usually half empty. Large settings offered an abundance of character studies, where I could just depose myself from the crowd and film- but more importantly- _watch_ the human interactions, because rarely did I ever actually participate. Just being immersed in other people's folly, joy, conversation… caused me to feel both despotic _and_ detached. Roger once told me I craved the lives of other people- that if I didn't have anyone to focus on I wouldn't know what to do with my _own_ life. For the longest time I resented that, and I doubted that was the case- I could… survive without other people to scrutinize… but now, now that all my friends had moved away or had forgotten me or… passed away… there was no one. There really was no one. With launches me into my second partiality of film subjects- my friends.

They're ten times more worthy of my observation- not to sound elite- but it was because they were the root of my emotions. They're my _friends_, for God sakes, not some random people on the street! Replaying a kiss between Angel and Collins had so much more connotation and… magic in it than between some couple I'd filmed at some party and never saw again… I thrived on these makeshift experiences- my little journeys inside someone else's feelings.

However, I didn't feel like a parasite, depending on social study, but just... a fly on the wall. It really perturbed me that my whole pathetic existence went in circles: I observed others so not to be alone, but in my observations I was overlooked, and therefore I disengaged in order to continue watching without the swindle of rejection.

Upon further thought, that left me without a place in the world.

If no one really wanted me around to film them, and the only person benefiting from the films was myself… well what the fuck? Kick the perennial habit, that's what!

April and Mimi and Angel died, Collins moved away, Maureen and Joanne pretend to care, but technically don't exist to me, Benny is a figure of speech, my family somewhat disowns me, and Roger… well, I'll get to him later… but with no one to film and the realization that my filming was subjecting me to ruin and suspending the ghosts of my past, that left me no choice but to stop with the camera.

For a while, it was a relief, not feeling obligated to watch other people. Then it grew annoying- I missed the feel of the thing in front of my face… I felt naked and compulsive, always missing good shots, and then I grew out of that with the gorgeous notion of, "Oh fuck it." So for weeks on end the camera sat on the table in my room, dormant and unventilated, and like its master- overlooked. But the vicious circle drew me back in, and I found I couldn't _not_ film. It was something I had to uphold, and I'd brushed it off like it was some placid hobby. I cannot recall an origin for my love of filmmaking, but it had everything to do with my piquant need to watch others… and _that_ existed since I'd left the womb.

Without my camera at my side I also noticed my total lack of an imagination. I was so fucking candid and _literal_, all the time. Which, I found, had previously contributed to my occasional naivety and gullibility. For instance, when I was dating Maureen, I so fervently insisted she be honest with me about _everything_ that I totally disregarded the fact that she could be lying to me. Sure enough, I took her vows of fidelity to heart, completely missing the signs that she's cheated on me with various other men, and eventually, Joanne.

I took things as they came and saw things for what they were, which is _exactly_ why Roger can claim the title of my best friend. Even though Roger is the most complex and secretive person I know… well, that's all I need to know! –That he's complex and secretive, and all _he_ needs to know is that I'm caring and logical, and when the time came for him to unveil himself and his problems, I was there to listen and to understand.

So therefore, with Roger and without the camera I had a newfound purpose in this world- to be there for him. To listen and to understand, and sometimes, even to understand for the both of us, because Roger was so multifarious he had trouble getting his head around his own state of mind. If I couldn't be a fly on the wall I'd settle for a plainspoken best friend. A.I.D.S. and rocky past aside, Roger was my companion, the best and most loyal I'd ever had. Our goodwill was unfathomable- all we'd seen and had been through and philosophized about. Sure, we fought more than anyone I knew, but that only strengthened our bond and assured us of our numerous, yet compatible differences.

I could exist to accent Roger. Sometimes he overlooked me too, but in only three major instances. The first? Falling in love with April. The second? Falling in love with heroin. And the third? Falling in love with Mimi. All of which were _perfectly_ understandable and in no way was I going to demand to be noticed. Why should I?

When I was not fighting with Roger or being ignored by him, I was devoting my life to help him survive- aka withdrawal and disease- a bit more horrifying than falling in love. All my other friends had gracefully liberated themselves from my emotional field, from Benny moving away to Maureen bluntly dumping me- so coping with their loss was an achievable goal. But Roger- oh God- so many times had he come inches from death, and I'd been there to witness him slip away, so many times had I thought he'd been gone forever, only to have him take another breath, and again and again and again I'd realize really how much he meant to me, only to have him almost die again.

And again.

And again.

I could not take this gamble any longer.

Films did not help me cope. Camera-less observation did nothing for my mental health. Confiding in my shifty friends only scrambled my insides, and trying to reflect on and analyze my past only put me through hell:

I dropped out of college to come to New York to be 'an artist', but mainly to help Roger through his vicious heroin addiction. My parents… excommunicated me from the household for a while, in disbelief and shame of my cancellation of my last two years at Brown. Benny, my dorm mate and runner up as best friend, made it big in the real estate world, buying Roger's apartment to aid us with the rent. Roger… fell in love and… ignored me, only to have April end her life. I witnessed that aftermath. Roger contacted A.I.D.S. and his condition steadily fluctuated. Roger decided to withdraw. I helped. I held onto his life. My girlfriend of a year and a half deprived me of both love and a job. Benny turned on us and stopped the Good Samaritan act, right when Roger and I were both out of work. We struggled with the rent. With basic necessities. With life. We managed to keep from drowning only after finding hope again briefly in the form of Angel and Mimi and for me, a high-paying job that allowed me to do what I loved. But Roger slipped under and moved away to find himself, only to return to lose his inspiration and to be engulfed by the enigma his future (and survival) presented. I quit my job, only because I couldn't figure out who the fuck I was or what I wanted to do with myself, and then Mimi died and wouldn't you know it, Roger needed me again. The only opulence in my life.

Collins couldn't take all the sadness, so he hiked it out of the state to teach his auspicious bullshit to young anarchists everywhere, so maybe they'll be inspired by his opportunism and continue the tradition of only showing up when it was convenient.

Joanne and Maureen frolicked off together like a couple on an eternal honeymoon, vowing never to fight again because look where that got them…leaving me and Roger to die alone.

I'd been through _enough_.

More importantly I'd had enough of being the savior. The good guy. The _witness_. The fucking fly on the wall. It even might've been better if someone finally noticed me and squished, but no. That never happened. So I thought of squishing- killing- myself, just to see who'd notice, but I think the only thing that stopped me from doing that was April. Call me an asshole, but it'd been done already. I was a fly, not a copycat. We didn't need any more tragedy. Excuse me- _Roger_ didn't need any more tragedy. He needed _me_. And that's why I'm still here. Because I love Roger with all my heart and he is my best friend and I'm meant to be there for all the ups and downs and unstinting brushes with death. And to serve a purpose. Three _fucking_ cheers for a purpose. But I wasn't going to grin and bear it, that's for damn sure.

Actually, I wasn't going to grin. Just like my camera, I'd seen too much. I was bitter and unwilling to cope with any more of life's hurdles. Godamnit, I was _sad_. I believe the folks at Empire State Pharmacy call it 'clinical depression.'

They have a cure for that. It's called Prozac.

But the folks at Empire State Pharmacy call it flouxetine hydrochloride.

I thought I wouldn't need it.

I _didn't_ need it! For the longest time, all those years of letdown after letdown, I just kept on keeping on. First, the camera was the remedy, and then life was the remedy, then Roger's life. All the things that were non-artificial and empowering. But this time there was the possibility that Roger _really_ might die.

I can't even grasp that. And he wonders why I faint…

Roger, gone? What reason would I have to exist then? How would I even mourn? That mad me sadder- more 'clinically depressed' than a thousand lifetimes. Fuck non-artificial empowerment. I needed fucking _drugs_.

And this is why I was a failure.

Never before would I dapple with reality. With my own instincts and innards. My brain may be slightly demented and full of regret, but no way was I going to pop two little pills to control how I thought. That's like sticking a garden hose inside the camera and expecting it to project. I didn't want watered down thoughts! I wanted real, courtesy of Mark Cohen logistics, assiduous integrity, heart-wrenching philosophies and a bohemian conception.

But Oh God- I was just so… _pathetic_! I could not handle it anymore. So I took two little blue happy pills and this is where I wound up.

'Drug' is an overestimation, and 'medication' is an understatement. And 'happy pills' is just incorrect.

'Ambivalent pills' is much more accurate. Like I said, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde.

To hell with disortion! It was like sticking a garden hose inside the camera and turning it on full blast.

The old Mark was projected, _sometimes_, in little bits and pieces. Remnants.

And happiness leaked through _occasionally_. There was, as promised, a balance and management to the depression.

But the blast of the hose- the majority of the emotion was the Mark Cohen that got _fucked over_. All my anger and resentment and regret and some emotions I never knew I held inside of me- like selfishness- came pouring out and conquered.

Sometimes I downright loved it- being able to stop caring and not having persistent worry at the back of my mind. But mostly it was scary, losing sight of myself, and, when the effects of the drug wore off- returning only to the Mark Cohen devoid of hope.

Circles, circles, circles.

I couldn't film, I couldn't not film. I couldn't live, I couldn't die. I couldn't cope, I couldn't take the Prozac, and I couldn't function without it.

And now, another fucking dilemma- being trapped in this loft, alone, to reflect on it all, with Roger, at the hospital, dying.

…Living?

…Simply tackling another day?

I find myself pacing again. An accomplishment?

No.

Just a circle.

Always, endless circles.


	10. The Disclosure

_"Just don't forget- love heals."_

_-Jonathan Larson_

_-------------------------------------_

I was feeling pretty much like myself; safe enough to even quiet my insomnia. I took the chance to catch some shut-eye, and was nearly asleep when there was a knock at the door. It threw me out of my slumber entirely and I sat straight up on the couch where I'd drifted off, fully awake.

"Who is it?" I called angrily.

"Mark, it's Benny, man."

I _was_ felling pretty much like myself. But it only takes a drop of potion to send Dr. Jeckyll over the edge.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Can I come in?"

"Not really, no."

"Well- _please_? I wanna talk to you."

"_I_ don't wanna talk to _you_…"

"Come on Mark. Open this door. If you don't I will. I have keys. I know what happened."

"…Oh _really_? Okay. I'll let you in if you can explain to me what happened." I sit up and cross my arms patiently, as if he can see me through the door.

"…Um- Roger went to the hospital after collapsing…?"

"Incorrect." I snap. "Try again."

"What? No! Why? Then what happened?"

"…Well _I'd_ say our fucking landlord turned off our heat, causing Roger's CD4's to deplete to almost _NOTHING_! And _THEN_ pneumonia settled into his lungs, and his intestines backfired- TO BE _SPECIFIC_!" I stand up and back away.

Benny whips out his secret weapon- the landlord's master key ring, and is inside before I can continue to bitch.

"Listen _Mark_, it wasn't my _fault_, okay?"

I snort. "For God's sake Benny, how was this _not_ your fault?"

"Well for starters- _I_ didn't give him A.I.D.S.!"

My breath catches in my throat. If I weren't preoccupied with my own anger I would've killed Benny right on the spot. But somewhere in the sick and twisted realm of the 'selfish Mark Cohen' thoughts, I accepted Benny's point.

In a way, Roger had brought this upon himself.

I put my palm to my forehead and sat down on the couch, feeling a major contradiction coming on.

I raised my arms to my landlord. "Just look at us Benny. The _high_ and _mighty_. The _healthy_. Sitting on our little throne of well being and lowered expectations. How did we _ever_ end up _here_? We were Ivy League, Benny! We had everything going and now we sit here and piss about our mistakes-"

Benny stared at me with a vague expression due to my sudden change in topic.

"…Mark? I…don't follow you. Uhh…are you saying we're failures?" How ironic that he used _that_ word. "What are you getting at?"

I laughed. "Don't you _see_ it? We fucked up somewhere! Okay…_you_ didn't…You did whatever you had to do. You fought and killed for that Grey internship and wound up with a team of investors, the keys to half of Alphabet City, and a small fortune. Props Benny, props. Kudos on being the hidebound pawn to corporate robotics."

"_What_? Mark, what are you accusing me of? I'm still not following you. Are you saying I'm some kind of hindrance to you? That I'm…in the wrong here?"

"Sure Benny, you're a hindrance. I used to think it was because you threatened to evict us. But then I realized that was my own doing. It was all part of the plan to be 'out of the mainstream.' Forget that, I'm past it now. No Benny, you're a hindrance because you omit us-"

"Well _excuse_ me if I'm not an…_artist_, Mark! I never intended to be, ever-"

"Let me _finish_ Benny! I don't know who you're trying to kid- you come off as such a yuppie, but everyone can see past that! May I remind you, again, of your humble beginnings? They were _here_, Benny, with us, with this little unbigoted group of hippies! I believe you slept right over there- in that bedroom. And for a while- you slept with _Mimi_ in that bedroom, unbeknownst to us! Mimi had A.I.D.S. too, and she _died_ from it, my dear friend. And _she_ wouldn't pay her rent and _she_ made her art her life and _she_ had friends who devoted every ounce of their effort to reserve her solemnity and keep her _alive_. You are not unlike me, _Benny_. And yet we parade around here, able to stand on our own two feet, and for the most part- go about our lives as if we never were disarranged or limited by the people we know!"

I stand up quickly and hurl a framed portrait of Angel at him from off the coffee table.

"You see Benny, lately I haven't been able understand myself, so maybe you can help me. Because I can see both sides of you, but not of myself. Not really. Let me clarify: When you're with your pecuniary family- with Allison- you act like Big Brother's got a camera hidden in every corner. You're ashamed of us- me, Roger, of your past. So you don't mention it, and put all your stigma into being some cagey tycoon. But when you can cut a break- _oh_- you're out fucking strippers and promising leeway on the month's dues and cranking the heat for Roger- that's some _other_ Benny entirely! _Please_, tell me how you do it! How you can stand to shift personalities? I feel guilty for even being able to inhale without an oxygen tube when I see Roger suffering!"

Benny massages his neck and smiles uneasily.

"Dang Mark, when you rant you really _rant_. I can't refute you. I honestly can't. Maybe you want to fight me, but I feel that no matter what I say you're still going to think that I've washed my hands of this life. Of _your_ life. But- I've _never_ lived _your_ life, Mark, so I don't understand. Ha! So I like money! Who _doesn't_? I followed the path that got me richest quickest and I stepped on a bunch of heads to get there. I don't have the time- or concern- for 'starving artists.' I don't forget that I lived with you guys. I just resided here long enough to know that I'd rather sell out than _starve_! Oh, and I thank the Lord everyday that I don't need an oxygen tank to breathe, don't _you_? You asked about both sides of you- and how we can strut around like we haven't a care in the world. …But Mark, I don't _see_ two sides of you! Maybe I'm not looking hard enough, but I know _exactly_ why _you_ can strut around! Because you _care_. Because you actually take the time to save a bunch of lives, and when you finally get a breather from all the love you give you _don't_ strut around! I bet you sit down and think, 'Whoo…I'm _tired_!' I'm jealous of you. While I go home and count my money, you sit at the hospital and count Roger's T-cells. Fuck you Mark Cohen. I wish _I_ had the capacity to give a damn."

This shut me up.

Benny walked over and gently handed me the picture of Angel, clamping a hand on my shoulder.

I stuttered. "You- r- you really don't see two sides of me?"

"_Hell_ no. Why? Are you _trying_ to be more complicated? You are they only person I know that can sit for hours on end replaying footage of a fucking _life_ _support_ meeting without going into hysterics or a coma. Why would anyone _possibly_ want to live that if they don't _have_ to? That's my question. You told me a long time ago it was to make a career. But who are _you_ trying to kid? You go to those things- you stick by Roger- to _understand_. When no one else will."

I fell silent.

I held the picture of Angel in my hands and stared at it for a long, long time. Benny just stood behind me and watched while I had my revelation.

"Benny…" I whispered. "I _do_ understand…"

Benny left me alone after a while. I distantly heard him leave but I was too deep in thought to notice. Something had set off in my mind. I was lost in an old memory.

-Roger and I in all our youthful, defiant glory, making a spectacle of our angst and umbrage to Benny, to the city, the world, perched atop our balcony trying desperately to create a philosophy on the spot and question life like the little rebels we were. _How do you leave the past behind when it keeps finding ways to get to your heart? _Another screenplay aflame. Another wave of hatred directed at Maureen, and my parents, at myself. Anger, anger, anger and resentment, looking down at it all from the fire escape. There was too much. I latch onto Roger and we scream. We need to forget. We want answers.

I wish I was on the street that night to answer myself. To shut myself up and allow myself to think, for _once_.

You _don't_ leave it behind. You don't cover it, or burn it, or deny it or push it away. You bring it out and _face_ it. You do whatever it takes- you capture it on film and utilize every last frame and edit _nothing_.

You live and learn and understand.

Then you replace the reel and start recording where you left off.


	11. The Promise

_I've heard it said, _

_that people come into our lives for a reason, _

_bringing something we must learn. _

_And we are lead _

_to those who help us most to grow, _

_if we let them._

_And we help them in return._

_-Wicked_

_------------------------------------------------------------_

It was necessary that I went to visit Roger. I tried to keep our conversation light, but his situation just ruined customary exchange inescapably.

--

"…When I die what will you do?"

"Roger, you're regressing. Why are you so suddenly accepting of death?"

"Don't change the subject Mark. Just answer my question."

"I can't answer that."

"Then let me answer it for you. You're going to let me go."

"Roger, why are you _talking_ about this?"

"Oh, so it's only okay when _you_ bring it up?"

"I don't _like_ talking about it!"

"Well, we're going to have to start sometime. You should be happy for me, because I've _finally_ stopped pretending I'm going to be okay."

I felt like someone just stabbed my heart. I laughed quietly, blinking back a few tears that had unsurprisingly sprung into my vision. "Roger- …when- when I say those kinds of things I don't really _mean_ them…"

"Shut up, yes you do. And over the years I've found I should listen to what you tell me…"

I laugh again. "Yeah, only when it's in your best interest…"

He laughs too and thinks a moment. "However- I'm having trouble accepting the fact that _death_ is in my best interest."

More laughter. Why was this so damn funny? Why was I sitting here laughing as Roger was falling apart beside me?

"Then…don't follow my advice." I suggest.

Roger smiles and grabs his head in his hands.

"Do you know how fucking _weird_ this feels? I mean, I could wake up tomorrow and be _gone_… but while I'm falling asleep I'll be thinking, '…Wonder what they're serving for breakfast tomorrow…?' At least if I don't _deny_ death I'll be somewhat prepared each night to not wake up…"

Now the tears start falling freely from my eyes and I lightly punch Roger's mattress. "No one can be prepared for _death_ Roger… _no_ one."

"Yeah, but-"

"No. No, don't even talk like that. Besides, who says you're going to die? _You_?"

"Well…we don't have insurance, Mark. They're technically preparing to kick me out of here any day now. The bills aren't being paid. But my sustenance aside, I feel pretty damn morbid…" He tries to crack a smile.

"Why are you smiling? This is not funny!" I put my forehead to his mattress and laugh. What else was there for us to do? I look back at him and try to keep the corners of my mouth from curling up. "What are we supposed to do?"

"We could steal the AZT safe and hit the road…"

"And then?"

Roger snorts. "I don't know. I _really_ don't know. We give up. Because you're right- death is _inevitable_."

I pull back and wipe my eyes. "We all _die_, Roger!"

"I know!" He snaps. Suddenly, he's frightened. "But I don't want to _suffer_!"

And suddenly, I'm angry. "I don't want to outlive you!"

"I don't want to _die_!"

"I don't _want_ you to die!"

"…Well then I'll just fucking live _forever_, okay Mark? Because that's so damn _easy_!"

"Don't yell at me! I don't know what to say any more than you do!"

"Well, think of something _please_! Because I'm fucking _terrified_. Hurry up Mark. You've never failed me before."

"What do you want me to say! 'It's okay Roger'? Because I thought we _just_ went over this! It isn't okay! Ha! Why don't _you_ say something for a change? Anything you need to get off your chest? Because _apparently_ you've set the timer for yourself!"

"Are you asking me for my last words? My _will_? Is that what you want from me Mark?"

"…Maybe I am!"

I turn from Roger and scowl. This feels like a fucking soap opera.

"Do you really want to know?" He asks quietly from behind me. "…Because I want to tell you…"

I turn to face him and he looks me in the eyes. He just stares me down for a moment, shoulders tense.

"In all honesty? I'm ready. But I don't really know-" He swallows. "If _you_ are."

Did I really wear my heart that obviously on my sleeve? Before I can cry again he continues.

"I think you _need_ to know that it's gonna be okay for me to die."

I scoff. "How?"

"I…" He hesitates to regroup. "Because I _found_ everything I needed to-" He swallows again. "…In this world. Although it might not seem that way. I learned all my…life lessons the hard way. But I think-" He chuckles, deep in thought. "I think I've covered everything a person needs to experience in a lifetime. Hatred and love, fame and desertion and… _glory_ and- a fall from grace, trauma and tragedy, Oh God, do I know tragedy…and sorrow and hope and…" Now it's Roger's turn to cry. Very, very hard. "But the only reason I _found_ hope Mark, is because I found friendship. _You_. I'd already be dead if it weren't for _you_. I had Collins and Benny and everyone else, and I've done things for myself in this life, but you've done more for me than I _ever_ could. And, well, I've put you through some _shit_." He laughs.

"And I'm sorry. I'm so, _so_ sorry Mark. But at the same time, I am so, so grateful for all you've taught me and all the times you've kept me alive-" He stops. "Mark? There was never a time you gave up, was there? All the times I left you alone or I neglected you or pushed you away or froze up, you were still _right there_. Always. And words- _last_ words-" He sobs. "Aren't going to cover that. I can't- you- there's nothing else to say! All you've ever done for me is just a reflection of what I'm feeling right now. You helped me to prepare to go, Mark, whether you realize it or not. There is _no way_ to put that into words. I've used up my life. It's- but- and I feel-" He squeezes his temples.

"I feel it's not _fair_ to _you_! Because I can't repay you! I can just cause you more grief- just put you through something _else_. But that's why I asked you what you're going to do once I'm gone, because I need to make sure you're going to be _okay_. You're _not_ okay, I can see it! I've admitted my doubt- but now- I need _you_ to!"

I can't bring myself to cry, or even speak.

Roger punches the bed.

"Oh, come _on_! Don't _do_ this to me Mark! Please! Just _talk_. Let me know you're going to pull through. I think… I can't let go until I _know_ that. I don't want to die but I sure as hell don't want to have to hold on by the fucking thread that you've put between us!" He reaches out and shakes my shoulders.

I grab his arms wrathfully and pull them off of me.

"Roger! I can't _outlive_ you!" I throw his arms down in exasperation and stand up.

"You _said_ that already! Where are you going? Come _back_." He grabs his IV pole and squeezes it. "I will rip this thing from my arm, I swear to God. Sit back down and _tell_ me you're not going to do anything _stupid_ if I die!"

I turn around slowly, eyes wild.

"Oh, but I _will_."

I bite my lip, which has begun to quiver uncontrollably. Roger jabs his finger at the seat of the chair and I obey.

"Like _what_?"

"I'm going to make myself want to forget." I mutter.

"Forget _what_?" He cuts me off.

"You."

I fall silent and look away. I was a hypocrite. I've _always_ been a fucking hypocrite. I would leave the past behind if Roger ever left me.

"Oh no. No no no. I was afraid of that. _How_, exactly, did you plan on doing that?"

"What, forgetting you? I- don't want to- I don't know."

"What will you do?"

"_I don't know_."

"Will you make me a _memory_? Because this is the part where I get to pay you back Mark. Maybe you don't remember, but I've lost _two_ of the people I loved. And _both_ times they _promised_ me they'd always be there for me and they-" He starts crying again. "And they _died_. But you- you are the _only_ person I know who can _keep_ that promise. And I _need_ you to keep it even after I'm gone. I've worked _too_ hard to make an impression and I _know_ I made one on you so don't just THROW ME AWAY like I never mattered. I think about April and Mimi _every_ day Mark. They exist in my heart even as it's stopping."

I start to cry.

"…So don't forget me. Just because I won't be there for you to care for doesn't mean you can stop _caring_."

"But Roger-" I sob, and wring my hands.

"No! No. You have _nothing_ to say. I will be here for you as long as I can, and even when I'm gone I'll still be there. Always. Just like you were for me."

I can't handle this. I need to leave and be alone again. Because if I'm alone the only person I have to lose is _myself_.

I stand up to go, but ironically I find myself staying.

So I pace.

Roger watches me for a few minutes and then says quietly, "I'd really appreciate it of you stayed…"

There was so much underlying fear in his voice my legs instantly stiffened up and I resumed sitting at my post in the chair. I needed to speak, but in the end it could all go without saying. So I just sat with my legs pulled up to my chin and stared blankly out the window, and Roger set his jaw and looked down at his sheets. Neither of us said anything else, even when the nurse entered to refill Roger's pill container and check his monitor. But when it was just us two again, Roger spoke up.

"I still have more to talk about…"

Why did he think I was still _sitting_ here?

"So talk!" I command. He sits up straight and looks at me askance.

"Don't _rush_ me!" He growls. "It feels like you're _pushing_ me, Mark! Pushing these words out of me so it can be all said and _done_. _Stop_ _it_. …And stop handling this like I'm _fearless_. I can't just let it all out! I've never been fearless, ever since I got that damned note," More tears. "I've been fucking _terrified_! Knowing that each day my body is failing from the inside out. Sitting here, even now, I _still_ can't get a grip! I can't just _talk_, Mark. Physically, it hurts to form words but it really hurts because I don't know what to say and I don't have enough time to say it! It seems there's _never_ enough time for _anybody_! How is Collins doing? We never see him anymore! _His_ life has been shattered by this plague too, but is it _tangible_ for him yet? Has it shattered him from the _inside_? Why has _he_ been spared? I'm jealous. Tell him that Mark. Those are my last words to him. I'm fucking jealous because he's still able-bodied. But then I can't…_say_ that about him. Because he's been _through_ what I have and he's just lucky… to be living- and- thank him. Thank him for all his philanthropic wisdom and all the _bullshit_ he ever gave me about this. All his perverted reminders that I should just suck it up and keep hanging on. And for all his support and wake-up calls and breaks from this pestilence… Why can't he be here now? You- _see_? You're the _only_ one Mark. What the _fuck_ would I do without you? Ha! Take a second to look around at all my other friends that came to visit me tonight. I'm getting a little bit claustrophobic from all these bodies in here!"

Roger laughs, but it's a laugh I've never heard before. There's no joy, or even sarcasm in it.

"What would I do without Mark Cohen? I've been blessed with April and Mimi and…music…what a fucking _ride_ my life has been! Thank God I got to drag you along with me! Hell, if I were you I'd be one heartless son of a bitch. If I found myself on a park bench with a needle in my arm I'd just shake my head in pity and _walk away_. But maybe it's good that I wasn't the one doing the walking… Like I said, I learned everything I needed to the hard way…" He laughs. "I guess I just had it rough."

He rolls up the sleeve of his hospital gown to show me a fresh bout of lesions and chuckles. "Really, really rough…"

I hand him a box of tissues, because I don't know what else to do. He takes one, but balls it up and holds it tightly. He's quiet for a minute.

"I fucked up." He snarls suddenly, hurling the tissue at the corner where the wall meets the ceiling. "**I fucked up, okay? I'm sorry**!" He cries.

Roger never believed in God. But I think he was talking to him now.

I look from Roger to the ceiling to the wrinkled Kleenex on the floor, but I keep my mouth shut.

"Mark," Roger yelps suddenly. "You gotta promise me you'll be alright." He looks at me again. "You still haven't promised."

"Roger, I can't promise. I can tell you that I'm _already_ not alright!"

"Okay, then don't promise that. Maybe that's not what I mean. You have to promise that you'll except that I'm paying you back for being here, now and _always_. That you will listen when I say don't _fucking_ forget me. Maybe it's just a weird thing with me- needing to leave a mark. But promise. Right now."

"How could you even _ask_ that?" There is no sympathy in my voice. He looks taken aback.

"Roger! I _promise_ you, from the very bottom of my heart- whatever will be left of it if you ever go- I will never, _ever_ forget you. Why don't you already know this?"

"I _do_ already know… I know you don't mean it when you say you'll want to put me out of your mind. I just… needed to hear you say it out loud."

"I'm sorry. I don't know. I don't know if I mean it. Do you need me to shout it? Do you want me to rip my fucking voice box out? This conversation's not getting anywhere! You realize how much I've done for you, and I wouldn't have _done it_ if you didn't matter to me!"

"I know, I know! I'm sorry. _Again_, I'm _sorry_. But I just needed you to understand."

_Understand_. How is it that Roger twisted that around? –I stuck by Roger to understand.-

"But…I _do_…"

"I know. I know I know I know. You're _here_."

…_And when you're dying in America, you're not alone…_

I stand up again and Roger looks impotent.

But I shake my head and shoot him a scolding look, walking over to the cabinet where the nurses keep the spare blankets. I grab one and throw it around my shoulders, tucking myself back into the chair.

Roger sighs with relief and sits back against his pillow.

"Thank you." He whispers humbly.

I nod and stick out my chin. "Go to sleep. You gotta go to sleep."

He shudders and shoots me one last heedless glance before turning over. I reach up and switch off the light, but make no attempt to even close my eyes. I can't describe the feeling that hangs in the air, or give reasoning to why Roger would so quickly turn away. Maybe because he'd said all he needed to say, and he was giving me the chance to take it all in.

So I sit up and listen to the obscure and unsettling sounds of the hospital, pulling the blanket tighter around me and feeling so uneasy it's impossible to calm the furious beating of my heart. Maybe I was feeling what Roger was feeling- utter confusion- nothing and everything all at once. Paralyzed by my own fate.

I think Roger was still awake when I managed to find sleep, keeping true to his promise that he'd be there for me as long as he was able. He knew I never _could_ fall asleep knowing he was unsafe. All those nights of his withdrawal, I'd sit up and wait until I was _sure_ he was all right. Sometimes that would take till dawn; sometimes I'd go for days without sleeping.

It wasn't comfortable drifting off balled up in a hospital chair, but having him beside me, despite the atmosphere, quieted my unrest.

_I'm not alone…_


	12. The Tragedy

_I play dead._

_It stops the hurting._

_I play dead._

_The hurting stops. _

_-Bjork_

_---------------------------------------_

Roger died sometime during the night.

The funny thing was, I woke up expecting it.

When the doctor frantically jostled me awake to tell me, I was seized with such pure irony all I could do was look over at Roger's empty bed and frown.

Instantly, all conceptual thought went on hiatus, and I just sat and stared in a mixture of disbelief and incongruity.

Roger is dead. How sardonic…

Weird. We were _just_ talking about that last night…

What are the _odds_ of that?

_Roger_ is dead.

Roger is _dead_.

Roger is dead.

I say it over and over again in my mind, trying to make sense of the words. But they are just an echo, whose resonance blocks out all other sound.

"Roger is dead." Says the nurse as she takes the blanket from me and pulls me to my feet.

"Roger is dead." I tell her. I nod. Inside my head, the same three words rattle around. They cloud my vision. I lose focus.

I stumble and pitch forward, but the nurse grabs my arm and steadies me. "Whoa there. It's gonna be okay hun."

It's gonna be okay? But Roger said…

"But Roger is dead…" I remind her.

"Oh, dear…" She says lovingly, stroking my hand. "There's someone here who's going to take you home, okay? So you can sit down. Here. Here she is."

She lets go of my hand. Roger is dead Roger is dead Roger is dead. Another person takes it.

"Oh Mark…" Someone's head is on my shoulder. They are sobbing.

I realize my mouth has been open. I shut it and furrow my eyebrows and turn to see who is crying.

Maureen's shoulders heave and her mascara bleeds black down her cheeks.

I pull my hand from her grip.

Why was she crying? I frown.

"Where is Roger?" I ask her. My words are clumsy and distant.

The nurse smoothes the covers on the vacant bed. My face grows hot. "I want to talk to him, where is _Roger_?"

Maureen sniffles, "Oh Mark, they took him…" There is a terrible suction in my ears. I can't hear. I can't stand up. I stagger and Maureen grabs me and gently takes me toward the door. Where are we going?

Where is Roger?

"Roger is dead." Someone answers solemnly.

I take Maureen's hand.

I realize it was me who spoke.


	13. The Apology

_Once to die is better than length of days in sorrow without end._

_-Aeschylus_

_----------------------------------------------_

"Denial is the first step."

I curl up into a ball on the floor in front of Maureen's radiator and say nothing.

I say nothing and do nothing except struggle to believe what has happened.

But I can't believe it.

So I block it out.

And I block out everything else.

I can't make this acceptable. I can't talk. And I can't think. And I can't go home.

I can never go back there.

Now I'm stranded.

Trapped.

Inside my own mind. Left to fend off the onslaught of grief as it sinks in. Slowly.

Dauntingly slow.

I have no medication now. No help. No relief.

I can't sleep I can't eat I can't breathe.

Roger is dead Roger is dead Roger is dead.

Never have I felt so lost. Never have I been so overcome by such an unyielding urge to _die_.

I can't admit to this.

"Mark, please talk to us."

I can't I can't I can't.

"Mark, you've gotta get up."

I can't.

"It's been three days. _Please_."

I can't.

"I need you to try."

I can't.

"You've gotta eat something man."

Ceaseless pleading to counter the ceaseless misery.

"Damnit Mark, it feels like we've lost you too."

But you _have_.

"Mark, everyone's waiting on you. You gotta- we need you to _breathe_ Mark. Do it for Roger."

But Roger is dead. What is the use of breathing? Of anything?

"Mark, you've gotta say something."

"What's the _use_?"

It's true.

For now.

Acceptance is a mere cover.

Hope is an artificial emotion.

I think artificial thoughts.

I can't comprehend.

Not yet.

Not ever.

What I _do_ understand?

Roger is dead.

"Is he really gone?"

"Mark, you can't keep asking that."

Why not?

What else can I do?

I can't. I hate. There's only hate.

So much went unsaid. There was so much left to do.

_He_ did this to me. And now he's gone. He left without me. I couldn't save him. And it's too late now.

I can't forgive. I must forget.

I warned you. You escaped, but I cannot.

I'm sorry, Roger. I'm so, so sorry.


	14. The Overdose

_We do not easily suspect evil of those whom we love the most._

_-Peter Abelard_

------------------------------------------

As far back as I can remember, I have been terrified of ambulances. I am not afraid of much, and not until the past few years have I _really_ been given reason to take approaching sirens as a source of fear.

But ever since their distant wail was comprehensible I've found myself _paralyzed_ by them.

My first experience still sticks in my memory, clearer now than ever. It was a somewhat brutal exposure to the fear too, and although I try, I can't push it away.

--

I am four years old. I am standing on the corner adjacent to my preschool, gripping Cindy's hand. It isn't my first day, but even two weeks in I can't muster any sociability to let go of my sister and join my class. The other children dart carefree over the fenced-in asphalt, conquering the playground, swinging on the monkey bars, yelling until they're hoarse and exhausted, and even then scamper at each other with perpetual toddler force. I refuse to participate in the madness.

Cindy groans and wrings her hand from my little vice grip, shaking my entire arm in her attempt to pull away.

"Mark. Just _go_. _Go_. I want to go and talk with _my_ friends today, okay? I stood with you _all_ last week. Please."

She looks longingly in the direction of her giggling fourth-grade posse. The clique notices and she promptly drops my hand like it's acidic, stepping away, towards her friends. She shrugs and rolls her eyes and the girls erupt into immature and heartless laughter. "Geez Mark, don't _you_ have friends?"

"No Cindy!" I yelp and cling to her thigh.

She shakes me off and kneels, taking hold of my shoulders.

"I don't want to stand here anymore. I want to _go_ now. Look Mark-" She instructs, pointing with her eyes. "They're gonna make fun of me because I have to baby-sit my stupid little brother. Go!"

"I'm not stupid and I'm not little and I don't want to. Go and tell them you have to stay with me until the bell rings. Who cares what they think?"

"I do. And I'm not going to. Just- go and find somebody to play with. The bell is gonna go off in like, three minutes anyway."

I back up and stick out my chest in a fit of disdain. Then I turn, facing opposite my backstabbing sister, and traipse away, hoping she'll take my obedience as a guilt trip. Instead she just snickers and skips to join her sneering group of friends.

Dragging my backpack, I push my way through the mobs of elementary school children occupying this side of the playground. I'm nearly crushed to death by half the sixth grade flag-football team as they hustle over me, snagged in one another's arms as they all scramble for the ball plummeting towards earth. The playground monitor's whistle screeches loud and long and half the sixth grade flag-football team freezes on the spot.

"Hey!" The monitor barks. "You boys better _watch out _for the preschoolers! You are trampling your big feet over their territory, and almost over _them_." She jabs a finger at me and my face is instantly on fire. "Didn't the dean tell you the field is on _that_ side of the play structure? Be careful!"

The future jocks hang their heads and shuffle away, but almost every other occupant this side of the playground is staring at me, entranced and entertained by my disruption. Ready to cry, I look back in Cindy's direction as if to say, "See?" but she is gone.

Two seconds later the chaos ensues again and I'm forgotten, but _I_ still think all eyes are on me. I run to sit beneath the slide and conceal my embarrassing existence from the rest of my class. I kick at the woodchips, swinging my little legs and not paying attention as a girl, maybe a second-grader, falls from the monkey bars.

She had been hanging upside down by her knees, hair dangling towards the ground, cheeks red from the distorted gravity. She had been calling the name of a friend to show off, but no one heard her and she began to pull herself rightside up to find a better means of getting attention. As she fumbled for the bar, she misjudged and slipped, hand grabbing at the air once, twice, three times before her legs could no longer support her shifting body and they slipped from their place on the bars. She fell straight down, skull bouncing off the curve of the slide before landing with a '_snap_' on her neck. Then she was motionless.

No one else noticed. The monitor was too busy shepherding the football team away from the area, the girl's friends were engaged in an intense round of double-dutch, the other kids bumbled over the play structure, absorbed in the fight to obtain a swing. I wouldn't have noticed either- I was distracted with sulking- but when she landed the woodchips rustled near my feet and I was forced to look up.

She was splayed and crooked, as one may picture a body after it falls six feet from a row of monkey bars. I gasped quietly and scooted back, pulling my backpack with along defensively, as if her mangled form would snatch it from me. Then I just frowned and stared, watching silently as she strained to blink, to twitch, to move. What just happened?

"Hey." I whispered, reaching out a bit. "Hey… are you okay?"

No response.

I look around, up at the flurry of feet above me on the playground. "Hey…what's wrong?"

The bell rings.

The kids stop their pandemonium and all rush as one, off the playground and to the school, away from us.

The girl doesn't move.

"Wait!" I lisp, standing up, craning my head to find Cindy, find the monitor, find anyone.

"Hey, the bell ringed. We have to go…" I scold the motionless girl. Panic nags at the back of my mind, but moreso I'm angry. I'm going to be late.

"Hey- what's wrong? Get up!"

I reach down and shake her shoulder. She opens her mouth and a breathless noise escapes. A little trail of spit seeps down her cheek. She makes no attempt to pull her legs up straight. I don't think she's okay.

Abandoning my backpack, I stand triumphantly and lean over her crumpled frame. "Don't worry. I'm going to get Mrs. Hawley. Wait here."

I make my way- first walking, then running- to the school, where the last stragglers are disappearing into the building. Havoc proceeds inside as the children file into their classes. The preschool wing is all the way at the opposite end of the building. I push and shove and trip through the students of diminishing size, until at last I stagger into my classroom doorway, where Mrs. Hawley is taking attendance.

"Oh, Mark! There you are. Kevin said he saw you on the playground, but we weren't sure if you were here or not!"

"Mrs. Hawley." I interrupt sternly. "There's a girl on the playground. She fell off the jungle gym. I don't think she's okay."

"What?" My teacher perks up her ears, standing quickly.

"There's a girl outside. She won't come in, even when the bell rang."

"Oh no. Mark. Where is she? Can you show me where she is?"

"Come on." I urge, grabbing my teacher's hand.

In the hallway, Mrs. Hawley asks the assistant principal, who is patrolling the halls, to sit with her class, and to keep and ear out.

"Now what happened Mark?"

"She _fell_!" I say, slightly annoyed. We exit the building and rush across the playground. "She's under here."

I duck beneath the slide and peek down at the girl again. "I brought Mrs. Hawley." I assure her. "It's okay."

Mrs. Hawley gasps and covers her mouth. She kneels and asks the girl, "Oh my God, honey, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

Another airless squeal from the girl.

I point. "She fell from there, I think."

"Mark, honey, can you go inside and tell the secretary to call 911? Hurry Mark. This is very important."

"Is she okay? What happened?"

"I'll explain later. You need to go and call an ambulance while I stay here and make sure she's okay."

My eyes grow wide and panic strikes in my throat. "O-okay." I rasp, and take off as fast as I can to the building.

I am significantly shorter than the desk at the front office, and pound my fist on the swinging half-door to get behind the counter.

"Hello? We need help. Mrs. Hawley says to call an ambulance. There's a girl that fell off the money bars and she might not be okay."

One of the secretaries leans over the desk and smiles down at me, almost condescendingly. "What was that little guy?"

"Call _911_!" I scream. "There's a girl outside and she's _hurt_!"

That wipes the smile off her face, and she's instantly out of sight, behind the desk, looking out the window at the play structure while dialing in numbers with one hand.

"Hello, emergency? We need an ambulance to West Point Elementary. There's a girl-" She pauses to confer with me. "What happened?"

"She fell off the monkey bars! She's not _moving_!" I yelp, heart thundering in my chest. Hurry, lady, hurry up!

"A student says she's not moving. I'm not sure… No, no… Yes. Yeah… Thank you."

She hangs up. "They're on their way."

Frozen, I nod, and then turn to go back and help Mrs. Hawley.

"Oh no, dear?" The secretary calls. "It's probably best you stay in here for now. Here. You can come around and sit with me, okay? Come on."

She swings open the little door and I comply, reluctantly, staring around the desks and swivel chairs, out the big window, where my teacher and the girl are crouched on the ground. The girl still doesn't appear to have changed positions.

"Honey, would you like to color?" The secretary hands me some markers in a cup and a few sheets of typing paper. I take them to the windowsill and sit down, pressing my forehead to the glass.

"I'm going to leave you here with Mr. Friedon all right dear?" The principal steps out from behind his desk and walks up behind us. "I have to let them know the paramedics are coming."

She walks briskly to the exit and soon she appears outside the window, breaking into a run.

"Hey bud. Here. Do you want me to color with you?" The principal holds a marker in my face and then proceeds to draw a shakey dog, trying to hold my attention elsewhere, away from the sight outside.

"I don't want to color. What's happening to that girl?" I ask him.

"I don't know. But the ambulance is coming. Don't worry. Here, I can take you back to class. Who is your teacher?"

"Mrs. Hawley." I jab a finger at the playground. "No. I want to see if she's okay." I glue my face to the window.

Two seconds later sirens explode the silence. The fire department is relatively close to our school, thank goodness.

I pull away from the window and gawk at Mr. Friedon. Never before have I been in such a serious situation where the doctors actually needed to come to the person that was hurt. And they were coming _fast_.

They whooped down the street, blaring their ferocious horn that crippled eardrums and screamed at incompetent drivers to get out of the way. My four-year-old brain could not grasp the intensity of a medical emergency. All I knew was that ambulances meant someone needed a nurse very, very badly. And if an ambulance _that_ loud was coming _that_ quickly, the person must be very, very hurt.

"Oh no!" Was all I could say.

I found I was paralyzed, blinded by the red and blue bouncing off the office windows. The sirens were coming closer and closer, and Mrs. Halwey ran into the street to wave them down, and she was yelling, and they were getting louder and louder, and the girl wasn't moving, and neither was I, and the lights blared, but it might be too late, and it was just red, blue, red, blue, red

red

red

red.

--

Red.

On the floor, spread on the walls, smeared on the sink, seeping over the side of the tub, and out April's wrists. Red red red red red red.

I stagger backwards and bite back vomit. This isn't real.

Breathing is cancelled. My pulse in my ears and Roger's screams. Incessant ringing. The slosh of the tub. The drip of the faucet. And Roger screaming, screaming, screaming. Sound is cancelled.

April April April, red red red.

"Oh God Mark, call 911."

It's too late.

The numbers blend together.

"W-we need an ambulance."

"They're coming Roger."

"It's too _late_!"

I know.

I can't look anymore. Roger can't let go.

I can't step into the red. It's forbidden.

But the red shoots through the window from the ground below. And then the blue. The colors warp. The sirens blare. Again, I am paralyzed.

"Help me!" Roger cries.

I can't.

I stumble back to let the paramedics in. To take April away. Out of Roger's grip. Out of Roger's life.

--

Roger's life means nothing. He misses the toilet, now sparkling, a hint of ammonia and four bottles of bleach still lingers in the air, and pukes onto my shirt. Third shirt in two days.

His hands shake. His eyes are bloodshot. He, "…wants another hit God _damnit_!"

I stand up and reach for the towel, mopping at my shirt. I exit the bathroom and lock him in.

He'll run. He already has.

The sound of vomiting accompanies me as I change my shirt and neatly hang the soiled one off the fire escape. I put on a fresh sweater and walk back to the now silent bathroom.

He's bowed over the toilet bowl, unconscious.

Rhythmically I dial the three numbers and wait on the bathroom floor, enjoying the last few moments of silence before I'm frozen by the sirens again. Third time this week.

Soon Roger recovers and it's calm for maybe a good half-year.

And then comes Mimi.

--

She's shivering. Always.

I punch in the numbers.

She's cold. She's always cold.

Roger holds her. Ironically, her AZT buzzer goes off.

"Mark, tell them to hurry." She whispers.

Her second last words.

"Roger, I love you."

Then it is silent.

Soon come the sirens.

I'm motionless. I drop the phone.

--

I drop to the floor.

I haven't eaten in days. More than a week, last time I checked.

The vertigo clenches my vision, clenches my stability.

But it's not because I'm starving.

The paramedics will say it was because of my hemoglobin. Nine pills of Flouxetine Hydrochloride will wipe that right out. There is no oxygen being delivered to my blood, they'll say. My pH levels are imbalanced, maybe beyond repair.

First I felt tired. Then I felt nauseous. Then the confusion set in and the dizziness followed, and I collapsed.

Four hours I lay on the floor of the loft. I landed oh-so-perfectly, so that I could see, but not reach the phone, and so that I was forced to stare at the Fender guitar dead on the chair until the lightheadedness terminated my vision. The pill bottle bounced somewhere in front of me and rolled under the radiator.

First I swore.

Then I regretted.

Then I threw up. Weakly I rolled out of the puddle and apologized to Roger until I blacked out.

Collins came to visit.

Four hours later of course. It was Valentine's Day. And sadistically someone had planned Roger's wake on this day too.

Okay, he wasn't coming so much to visit than as to bitch me out for missing my best friend's funeral. Well, sorry I didn't make it you guys. I was a little busy overdosing.

With the pill bottle hidden (and probably melting) under the radiator, there was no evidence as to why I was half-dead. One could only assume (and they'd be half right) that I'd collapsed of pure and utter disappointment with the world.

Collins dodged the foam trickling from my mouth to check my very faint pulse. He pulled me into an upright, seated position against the couch before dialing those three fated numbers.

Luckily I'd be in a self-inflicted coma for the next three days, so I wouldn't have to hear, or see, or experience those ill-fated sirens. It was a bit uncalled-for. I was paralyzed already.

I'm terrified of ambulances. I'm not afraid of much, but there is one thing I am slightly more afraid of.

Death.

Come on ambulances, hurry up.


	15. The Turbulence

_This is the hour of lead  
Remembered if outlived,  
As freezing persons recollect the snow--  
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go_.

_-Emily Dickinson_

-------------------------------------

What felt like hundreds and _hundreds_ of years later, I opened my eyes.

Even stagnate, I could feel the passing of time.

I could also hear and comprehend, but I just couldn't see or respond.

Three _long_ days of darkness and muffled sound.

And then suddenly, light was flooding through the cracks in my eyelids, and then there were shapes. Fuzzy, but subsisting nonetheless. And then came colors, filtering bright and beautiful, and then movement, slow and unfamiliar, and finally speech and awareness.

But not memory.

Let's review:

Nine pills of Fluoxetine Hydrochloride lack of motor stimulus to the brain. Lack of motor stimulus to the brain cancellation of basic neurological functions. Cancellation of basic neurological functions discontinuation of hemoglobin from the lungs. Discontinuation of hemoglobin from the lungs prolonged hypoxia. Prolonged hypoxia permanent brain damage or death.

Day three of the coma the nurse came in to break this news to my visitors. She was a pretty nurse. Young, blonde, solemn.

"Four hours," She said, "With minimal oxygen being delivered to the brain is a very dire situation."

She stops for them to sob.

"He's not going to die-" She stops again as sighs of relief push through the air. "But there is-" She purses her thin lips and turns away slightly. "Permanent brain damage..."

…Ooohhh fuck.

I can hear you. Keep talking you bastard. Wake me up. Wake me up. Wake me up!

"Based on the M.R.I. there's going to be retrograde amnesia."

"What?" Someone squeaks.

"He's going to have trouble remembering things prior to when he wakes up. Memory distrust. He'll remember some things, and not others. And not necessarily in the right order."

What? WHAT? Amnesia? When I _wake up_? Oh you _fucking_ bastard. I wanted to _die_.

That was the point. It was the fucking _point_!

And then came the light. Dear God no.

What? Light? No! No this isn't right! I'm supposed to be in a coma! I'm supposed to be DYING! I am a fucking _vegetable_, okay? I don't want to wake up.

-

I'm awake.

There are people. All around me people.

Every single one of them gasps as I open my eyes.

Holy shit, _what_?

What is going on?

Where am I who are they what the _fuck_?

I am seized with panic and it won't let go.

I try focusing on each face. No feature is distinct. I look from person to person, honing in, but I can't place _anyone_. I can't even move. My tongue laps around like a sponge, blocking my throat. I forget how to breathe.

Shit.

Tears well up in my eyes and I try to scream something at them. They need to help me. Speak!

But I can't. My eyes dart down the row of people, until- her. I know her.

"Mom?"

I asked the question. I'm sure I did. But my voice won't work.

I frown.

She reaches out and squeezes my hand.

"Hi honey." She whispers.

I push up on my elbows, straining to sit up, to stand up, something. The oxygen tube tugs ferociously at my throat, and the covers jam around my chest.

To my right, the heart monitors whine and beep and _scream_ at me to sit back down.

My eyes shoot wide open. The noise in my ears is too much. What the fuck _is_ that?

More panic.

Make it stop! Oh my God.

I try to stand. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and grab at my ears and my mom is hollering, "Nurse, nurse!" and at the same time she's hissing, "Honey, lay back down." But I can't, I gotta stand I have to go I wanted to _die_.

"He's scared." Someone sobs, and suddenly there's a big strong hand on my chest and I'm being pushed back onto the pillow, down into the bed. And as quickly as it started, it stops. The oxygen tube lets up and my throat is open and I inhale. Slowly the monitors wind down and it's quiet again.

I can hear my heart. My chest heaves underneath the rumpled blanket. I am pressed against the headboard as if I'm taking off in a fucking rocket.

I can't blink.

I can't remember.

Again, I can't.


	16. The Challenge

_...practice losing farther, losing faster:  
places, and names, and where it was you meant  
to travel...the art of losing isn't hard to master..._

_- Elizabeth Bishop_

---------------------------------------

"So what happens _now_?" The woman in the doorway paces in and out of it. She's making me nervous.

The nurse holds up her hands and clears her throat.

"Now what? What do we _do_?" The woman's pacing gets faster. I stare at her with a look of concern. She looks over at me. Her eyes are wet. "How is he gonna-" She looks away quickly when she notices me watching her. "Now what?" She repeats.

"I've spoken with his family. They're taking him home today- he's going to stay with them for a while. They're choosing to inform him at their discretion. It's best that he's in that atmosphere."

"But- but I-" Her worry is making me nauseous. Why is she so _worried_?

Inhaling, I squeeze my mom's hand. The squeeze wakes her from her daze- she'd been watching the woman too, nodding along in agreement with the nurse. She jumps a little and then pats my wrist.

"Hey hun." She smiles warmly but her face launches into a direct pinch of concern. "What's the matter?"

I still can't find a voice. I say, "What's going on?" But it doesn't work.

She makes a face, slightly leaning her ear to my mouth. "Hm? It's okay Mark, you can say something."

Nooo... I can't. I frown and cross my arms over my chest and sit back up against the pillow, pouting childishly. My mom wipes at the corners of her eyes with a tissue, and then folds it neatly, letting go of my hand to tuck it into her purse.

"Are you okay?" She surveys my face.

Well, I'm fine other than the fact that I'm in a fucking hospital bed, in a room full of people I don't know, and you're crying, I'm guessing over me. Oh, and that woman is pacing tracks in the floor and I'm about to throw up on you if she doesn't cut it out and my brain hurts and my leg is twitching and oh shit I _have_ to stand up again!

I push the covers off of me, straining against the IV and the raucous warning beeps once more. That didn't stop me the first time. Holy _shit_ I'm nervous. My mom jumps again, jolted out of another trance, and grabs my shaking arm. She yelps, "Oh!" and the nurse and the woman rush over to me and try to stand astride, pushing me backwards, but the big black guy hovering in the doorway steps between them and takes hold of my shoulders.

"Hey." He scolds. "You can't get up yet. You're so _impatient_ sometimes. Wait until they release you, okay?" He's trying to be funny.

I look into his eyes with sheer terror and allow him to shove me to the mattress.

"Okay." I consent. To both our surprise, the word actually forms. It's scratchy and stressed, but it's my voice.

"The boy speaks!" The man cries. He looks like he wants to hug me. I push away, scooting back into the headboard. He looks a little offended at my timid reaction.

"Give him space…" The nurse whispers. The man obeys, distraught. The other man in the room comes over to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. My eyes dart back and forth from both of them. I cock my head and cock my eyebrow.

"Benny." It's not a question.

Benny takes his hand from the other guy's shoulder, looking up at me so quickly he could've broken his neck. "Mark." That's not a question either.

My mother beams at the nurse and the nurse beams back.

I eye the other man and proceed with caution. "Benny. Benny what's- why- what's going on?"

Benny looks bewildered. My heart booms in my throat. Why won't anyone explain anything to me? Why can't I remember how I ended up in this hospital? Benny looks to my mom for consent.

"Oh- wait!" I interrupt suddenly. "Roger-"

The other man inhales sharply and everyone in the room looks at everyone else in rotation, then eventually all eyes are back on me.

"Roger- the reunion show! He- Fillmore East, he was playing and then he fell- the paramedics- and then I was in the hallway waiting and I fainted because I panicked- but- but- I was- I wasn't-" I stop.

Wasn't I talking to Roger after that? I was in a hospital bed, yes, but not _this_ one. I didn't need a medical bracelet or saline in my arm. _He_ did. And we talked and then I went home. Didn't I?

"Where- where's Roger?" I begin to shiver. But I'm not even cold. Something is telling me to shiver.

Benny opens and closes his mouth like he's short on air. My mom shakes her head at him and pulls the covers up to my shoulders, rubbing my arms. "Honey, would you like to put on your glasses?"

I blink furiously. That's _right_, I need glasses. "Um, sure…" They're passed from the black woman on the windowsill, to the intimidating man, to Benny, to the pacing woman, to the nurse, to my mom, who slides them onto my face. Instantly my head feels a thousand times lighter.

I blink again and focus on the woman at the window. "M- Wh- _Joanne_!" My heart calms down a little at the sight of her, and she leaps up and strides over to the bedside. She looks at Benny triumphantly and he grins.

What was I talking about? I squint and think hard. Oh shit, what the fuck, I can't remember what I was just talking about! And why hasn't anyone told me why I'm in a God-damned hospital bed?

"Mom, what is going _on_?"

"Well…honey, we're going home really soon, okay?"

"_Okay_… but… ha ha, um, why are we here in the _first _place?" This was getting a little ridiculous.

"I'll explain on the way home all right? You're going to come back to Scarsdale and stay with me and dad for a while."

"Oh. Um… ookay... Does Roger know?"

She looks at the big black guy. He swallows an uneasy gulp and nods almost discreetly. My mom's voice cracks so she whispers. "Yes honey, he knows."

Doubt tugs at the corners of my mind. Why can't I recall that conversation with Roger? Were we fighting? Why was I coming home? Was it Christmas? No… it's late January. I think.

"What's the date today?"

"The day you go home!" A smiley man in a white surgeon's coat springs into the room, handing a clipboard to the nurse. "Let's get you unhooked and you're… well, home free!" He chuckles and scans the monitors.

"Did he have any problems?" He mumbles to the nurse out of the corner of his mouth.

"A little relapse about two minutes ago. But he put names to these two." She points to Joanne and Benny. I scowl at her. Well of _course_ I did. They're my friends...

"Great, great…" He doctor trails off. There's a slight compression as the IV is pulled from my wrist, a cold dab of peroxide, a bandage, and then the doctor's out of the room.

The nurse fumbles in a cabinet for a second, coming up with a plastic bag full of my clothes and my shoes. She hands them to me and says, "If you think you're stable enough you can put these on and get ready to get on out of here!" She smiles and indicates the bathroom. "If you need help you can just give me a holler."

She's one gorgeous nurse. I laugh for a minute, in my head. Yeah, maybe I will need some help… from _you_… She's almost as pretty as-

"...Maureen!"

The pacing woman stops pacing.

"Mark!"

I grin, blushing that it took a hot nurse to make the connection that she was in the room. Had she been in here the whole time? I notice her staring at me as if she's expecting me to continue.

"Oh. Um… hi."

"Hi." Tears well up in her eyes and she steps over and hugs me full on, now that I'm standing. I pat her back, raising an eyebrow. "Um, nice to see you… too?"

She giggles and sniffs, grabbing Joanne's hand.

"Uh- I'm…I'm going to change then…"

Through the locked door I sort of overhear the conversation outside.

"He's making excellent progress. Usually retrogrades take up to two or three _days_ before they can pull everything in."

"Oh thank goodness..." My mom sighs.

"There's also a downside to that though. He might remember some… things too quickly. He could have a memory relapse even as you're leaving the building. This is where you come in though Nancy. Just steady him and you can either tell him or change the subject… however you'd like to handle this. I suggest you take it slowly as possible-"

"Oh, I know…"

"And the only cause for concern that we can see is one of those fits. He's having… like, little mini- panic attacks. The frontal lobe- the part of the brain that controls emotions- was not as damaged as the temporal lobe. The right side of his brain is processing his feelings too quickly for the left side. He can remember the emotion, but not its source, so he'll suddenly feel anxious or even," She lowers her voice. "_Suicidal_- seemingly out of nowhere. Monitor him. Comfort him. Whatever it takes."

"Oh God." Maureen sobs.

Someone clears their throat. "Um, wh- why hasn't he remembered me yet?"

"It just… takes time. I'm really very sorry sir. There's nothing we can do about that. It's up to him now…"

"Aw, Coll- he'll remember…"

"I know, I _know_… Oh God. Maureen why would he do this? Mark wouldn't do this! Aw, _fuck_!"

There's a loud 'clang!'

"_Collins_, calm down."

"No, _you_ calm down. There is too much _shit_ happening, I _swear_ to fucking God! I want to overdose on fucking Prozac too! Bitch had the _right_ idea…"

"Tom!" My mom screams. A door slams. It's quiet. I'm done changing.

I peek out slowly. Joanne and the bigger man are gone. My mom is crying and Maureen is holding her shoulders. Benny is biting his lip and punching in some numbers on his cell phone.

They look up as I exit.

"Are you ready to go honey?" My mom asks quickly. Her voice cracks on the word 'go', and 'honey' is just a movement of her lips. Her eyes look like they're going to fall from her head in a waterfall of tears, and she waivers where she stands. I'd been uprooted and severely phased by that conversation two seconds ago, but just the look on her face- pure devastation- causes me to become far more concerned with _her_ well-being than my own.

"Mom, what's the matter? Are you okay? Do you think you can make it home? Do you-" The next part comes out slower. "...want me to drive?"

My brow wrinkles and I find myself falling to the bed. Why did that sound familiar? Was I having deja vu? Someone previous to this wasn't secure enough to drive. Was it me? Was that why I was here? Had I been in a car crash? A concussion? Shit, I'm tired…

I stand slowly, yawning.

"No Mark, I can make it home."

For the first time in my mother's life, she fakes a smile. And for the first time in _my_ life I'm too disoriented to catch that little detail.

"Oh, okay good." I smile back. "Let's go home then."


	17. The Runaway

_I'm trying not to wonder where you are. All this time, lingers, undefined. Someone choose who's left and who's leaving._

_-The Weakerthans_

----------------------------

Roger stands over me, grinning.

He's holding my camera, hugging it tightly to his chest, arms crossed.

He's just out of my reach.

"You're going to be late, you know." I tell him, pulling my backpack from the asphalt.

He keeps grinning.

"…Come on you fucking robot, gimme the camera, you're gonna miss it!" I try punching him in the shoulder but my fist falls inches short. He stares on with glassy eyes.

"Why are you just standing there? This isn't funny anymore Rog, you're creeping me out!"

I try standing, but I'm lying down, suddenly.

"Whoa."

Roger hasn't moved.

"Okay you fuck. You can't do that when I'm not paying attention-" A phantom thunderclap terrorizes the back of my mind and my skin explodes with goosebumps.

"Roger, can you help me up? Forget about the camera. Just put it down and help-" Roger's grin twinkles with a ghostly phosphorescence that I'd never seen. Roger has never been this happy.

"Why are you still smiling-?" And then the reverberations again, the back of my head booming and I am plummeting and Roger is shrinking, getting farther away until he is inches tall, encased in a square- a picture- a Polaroid- of Roger, grinning, holding my camera, hugging it tightly to his chest, arms crossed. The photo is delicately taped above my bed, in my room on the sloping roof of the house- the house I grew up in- my room?

I bolt upright in bed, my old bed, blinking several times. What the fuck am I doing in this bedroom?

Static crackles at my temples and the picture above my head disappears, fading into the paneling, corners curling and then they are gone.

In its place appears a cover of a gardening magazine, a backyard bursting with a idyllic display of petunias, and 'The Top Ten Tips for a Tip-Top Deck.' Nausea crams into my stomach and the whole room bobs in and out of focus, snatched pieces from a teenage memory and what actually in front of my eyes. Negatives hung adroitly from the clothesline strung from wall to wall, drying on the ceiling of an amateur filmmaker. But then the clothesline snakes away, slurping into the walls. It's been more than fifteen years since I'd seen this room.

Automatically I swing my hand out to the bedside table. My cassette player is gone. My record player is gone. My typewriter is gone. And in their place boxes and boxes full of paper, a pair of gardening shears, bags of potting soil, and a rake. The skylight filters four 'o clock sun over my bed sheets. Even these are wrong.

I reach up to try and find the picture of Roger. I pull away a corner of the magazine cover, but there is nothing behind it. There are footsteps on the stairs.

"Mark honey?"

"Yeah?"

"You're awake now?"

"…I don't think I really slept."

My mother nods.

I close my eyes and I see Roger at the back of my eyelids.

"…I took that picture the last day of summer."

"What?"

"Mom, what did you do with all my stuff?"

"What stuff, honey?"

"When I moved out."

"When you went to Providence? You took most of it with you."

"Did I?"

"The only things that you left were your bed and your dresser. And your father and I sold those at a rummage sale when you moved to the city. We figured you weren't coming back for them." She chuckles with a faraway look in her eyes.

"What about the typewriter?"

"You brought that with you."

"And my cassette player?"

"Yes, that too."

"And the record player too?"

"Well, you gave that to R- you brought that with. I imagine you have it buried in the apartment somewhere."

"Oh."

It's quiet. There's static at my temples again and I almost forget what I intended to ask. I point to the sloping roof.

"…It might be a while back, but do you remember the picture of Roger I had hanging there?"

My mother bites the side of her thumbnail, staring imprecisely at my index finger suspended over the nicely polished patio on the magazine. She shakes her head no, briefly, but then nods slowly yes, with more confidence.

"Really? Did you take it down or do I have it?"

"Mark, you're asking me about a picture. One out of the million you have taken in your lifetime. It's probably lost deep in a portfolio…" She pauses. "Why, did you need it?"

"No. I was just thinking about it. Or maybe I was dreaming. I'm not sure if I was awake. Anyway, I took that picture of Roger the day before he left for New York-" There is a convulsion in my mind that gives me shivers and I lose my train of thought. I stop and look up, out the skylight. The sun bleaches everything else. It is just white beyond the glass.

My mom touches my arm tenderly. "What were you saying honey?"

I blink.

"Um- I don't…remember."

Years, seconds, months, minutes, hours later I am alone again. I straighten the covers out and flip onto my back, prepared to stare into nothing. Out the skylight, the night is black.

There is no moon, no stars.

Maureen's voice is in my head, and again the room evaporates into a memory. The skylight stretches and sprawls the length of the cold, brick walls of the apartment.

"Where's Roger?" Maureen asks me.

We're sitting on the windowsill, staring up at a starless night.

"Out." I say distantly.

"For how long?" She grins mischievously and her hand is on my leg.

I smile, but hardly.

She pulls away.

"What's wrong?"

I press my forehead to the glass and try to see beneath the fire escape.

"I don't know…where he is."

"Who- Roger?" She blinks. "Do you _ever_ know where Roger is? _I_ think you're just worried he's going to come back too _soon_…" Her hand is back.

I don't notice.

"Have you seen him at all today?"

She pouts and wrings her hand in her lap. "No." She says apathetically, but then is incapacitated with my concern. "Well…this morning he went with April. I saw them on the stairs." She points to the door. "Why?"

"I just…I get worried."

"_Worried_?" he raises an eyebrow.

I scan the street.

"Wait, am I hearing you correctly, you get _worried_? About what- _Roger_?"

"I- well- nevermind…"

She laughs. "No really Mark, what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well…you don't worry about him?"

"Are we talking about the same Roger? No, I don't _worry_ about him. Why would you- Mark, get away from the window. You should see yourself, you look like a fucking dog. He'll come home when he comes home. And right now, he's gone. Now get over here before _I_ decide to leave."

Time stretches and snaps, shifting aggressively to the hours following Angel's death.

I am alone, on the hill.

My thoughts are interrupted by Mimi and Roger fighting, just out of earshot.

I am not in the mood to hear it anymore.

I can't even fathom how they can be feeling anything besides grief right now. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to filter out their voices, but there is nowhere else to go and nothing else to hear.

I walk over to the edge of the hill to witness Mimi grab Roger by the shoulders and shove him backwards with every ounce of ache and resentment she has kept bottled up until today. He stumbles over a headstone but catches himself on another. He stares in disbelief at the ground he has tripped on and looks up slowly, dramatically slow, into her eyes.

"…Where are you gonna go?!" She screams at him. Her voice rips through the placid air. She's trying so hard to hold everything inside and she trembles. I know that kind of conflict.

She steps back and he steps forward.

She shoves him again and he grabs her wrist. She balls a fist in his grip but does not try to pull away. They stand there like that for a long time in silence, Mimi's head cocked dauntingly to the side, and Roger bowing under the weight of his own selfishness.

"Roger." Benny is coming up the path from behind Mimi, walking briskly with a false sense of calm. "Let her go."

Roger closes his eyes and laughs, releasing her wrist but leaving his open palm hovering laboriously. Mimi sobs and immediately turns her face into Benny's chest.

"Let her go?" Roger mumbles. "Ha. She already left." He closes his hand and spins away.

"Then maybe it's time you leave too, Roger." Benny calls after him.

"I thought we already said goodbye."

Without delay he's struggling up the hill, crunching leaves furiously and staring impassively ahead. I don't have the impulse to run and he does not see me sitting in his path until the last second. I startle him but he barely lets it show.

"What are you doing?"

I stand up.

"You're _really_ going?"

He starts to walk away.

"Roger!"

He stops.

"Why?" It's a futile question. I sound pathetic. And this memory is pointless. I already know why. In some warped dramatic irony from my blended past and future, I already know how he's going to answer.

He contemplates abandoning me, but softens his stare and whispers, very patiently, "To forget."

At the time, alone on this hilltop, this does not seem like a very effective solution. I cannot understand how running away could possibly help.

For someone who's always been let down… 

And then thunder spits its frequency into the memory and the moon is shining through the skylight, full and bright.

I sit up in bed, and stare hard at the place where I'd hung the photo of Roger when I was seventeen. There is no thunder, no noise, no Roger.

I ball my fist and punch the wall, breaking a hole in the synthetic wood.

I cannot remember why I am back in Scarsdale.

New York seems far away, but, as he always has, Roger seems even farther.


	18. The Warden

_I'm earning a reputation  
My conscience, mistrust and regret  
Courageous, just like the captain  
Marching forward with no doubt in his head_

_-Guster_

_----------------------------------_

"Mark, you have a visitor!"

I stop pacing. I'd been walking the length of floor from the bed to the window and back for the last two hours. Pacing is appropriate behavior for a prisoner.

I've come to the awful and emotive conclusion that I was a hostage here. There was no other explanation.

There are familiar, heavy footfalls on the stairs and my face lights up. I run into the hallway, ecstatic.

"Roger!-"

But it isn't Roger.

It is the stranger from the hospital room and he's grinning that same expectant grin that scares the fuck out of me.

Paranoid, I lose my balance and fall against the wall, scrambling to shove myself backwards into the prison of my old bedroom. From the doorway, I trip over my tongue as well. "You! Who _are_ you?"

"I'm…" He tries, but I look away, and for the first time I notice that's he's carrying a guitar.

Roger's.

I sit up a little and eagerly peer around his big frame. But there is no one else on the stairs. I stare up at him dumbly.

So he holds out his hand to help me up and I feel myself want to flinch from the huge palm inches from my face. But I restrain myself. There isn't actually anything threatening about him.

The back of my head shifts and throbs and persists to do that uncontrollable mind-altering shit that it's been good at lately. I take his hand. And in one swift motion I am flung to my feet and my eyes are even with his chest. I get the feeling that he wants to hug me again- that he's _been_ wanting to hug me for the longest time- and I take a defensive step backwards. Clearing my throat, I frown a bit and hope that manners will repair some of this discomfort.

"Won't you come in-?" I drip with sarcasm. This is hardly a time for cordiality. I make a sweeping motion to the bedroom and play the hospitable host, trying hard to ignore the fact that the appearance of my houseguest had just knocked me to the floor. Jesting as he steps inside, I continue with a cracked sense of charm. "This is my…bedroom. I guess I live here now. Don't know why. I have an apartment in the city. Roger's my roommate-" I gesture the guitar and babble on, "But I've been cooped up here for the past three weeks. My head hurts like a bitch, I think I'm the victim of some horrible car accident, I've had no contact with the outside world, I think I'm being kept here against my will," I giggle nervously. "So _please_, excuse my lack of manners because frankly? I'm losing it. Oh, and I'm Mark. Now who are you?"

I fall to the bed and feel like crying.

His face contorts, as if he's having trouble thinking of what to say. Quietly he answers, "An old friend..."

"Oh. Well that's good. I was convinced you were the Angel of Death. I saw you at the hospital too. An old friend from where? Brown? High school? I'm sorry… I really don't…" I shake my head and trail off. "It feels like I should know you but-" I squeeze my eyes shut in hatred of my unreliable brain. What the fuck was _happening_ to me? "We're friends then? Listen, I apologize. I'm _really_ fucking losing it!" My eyes tear up. "Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have a visitor today…"

"Mark, it's _Collins_." The man whines. Whining does not seem suitable forthis man. It doesn't fit his voice. I am not friends with people who whine.

"Collins." My voice cracks and I shake my head and my lip quivers so hard I have trouble speaking. "Yeah, I'm sorry- I don't remember you…I feel…"

Collins grabs my shoulders and I stop my blubbering and freeze up to watch him blubber right back at me.

"_Collins_ Mark! _Tom_ _Collins_!" He shakes my shoulders and I hold onto his wrists and let him. Maybe he can help my brain along. It's trying so hard to remember.

"No no no nope! I don't know you, I don't-" It's almost as if I don't _want_ to remember. "Goddamnit!" I sob and allow my overwrought body to fall into his arms. We have a history, for God's sake I know we do! I shudder and he hugs me harder than anyone has ever hugged me in my life.

"You remember?!" He pleads.

I shake my head against his chest and cry.

"It's okay." He says, unsure himself.

"No it's not. I don't remember you but I know I should! Ha, there's a lot of things I _know_ I should remember and I _can't_. I don't know why! I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't apologize." He lets me go and I look up to see that he's been crying too.

"I don't know what's happening to me…"

"No one does Mark…" He mutters grudgingly.

I laugh and lean my head against the sloping roof where Roger's picture should be. "I think…maybe I'm dying." I say jokingly and my stomach churns from my confession to this stranger. "Death." I say, and we both let the word echo in the room. It tastes acidic in my mouth, the 'th' sound sending putrid ripples over my lips and tongue.

Collins stares at me with teary eyes.

I hold back another wave of my own tears. "It's funny because I used to think-" I stop mid-sentence and lift my head. I've never told this to anyone. Not even Roger.

"There's gotta be a problem in the space-time continuum or whatever the hell-" I shake my head. "God is _fucking_ with me. Death _follows_ me everywhere! April, Mimi, Angel-" And suddenly I remember who Collins is. I choose not to say anything. "And I used to think- I was the center of all this bereavement. What a selfish notion, hey? That it was _somebody's_ idea of fun that good 'ol Mark Cohen got to stand by and…_witness_ everyone he loves just…_go_! How privileged I am! And now this is it. This is the end. And I'm alone!" I throw my head back and laugh. "I _always_ fucking _knew_ it! This is ridiculously ironic, I can't even begin to tell you. I'm losing my fucking mind! Literally, I think parts of it are missing in action. It's seen too much death. And like _any_ soldier that knows what's _good_ for him- it packed up and deserted. I used to film you know. But then I realized that my camera had seen every last ounce of _bullshit_ my own two eyes observed! So I abandoned that fucking thing. Dropped the hobby. Recording _suffering _isn't the greatest pastime, surely you'll agree! I've got reels and reels and REELS of things I'm trying to forget. If I ever get out of here I think I'll burn those fucking reels… You wanna help? I've got _thousands_ of shots of Angel…" I grin. He knows I know.

But instead of laugh with joy like I expect him to, he lays the Fender across my lap.

"Please, don't ever burn your film Mark."

I stretch my fingers across the frets and refuse to acknowledge his advice.

"…Collins. Did Roger run away?"

Collins' head snaps up and his eyes look slightly excited. "What do you mean by that?"

"Um…I mean 'did he run away."

Collins thinks a moment.

"That's one way to put it."

"Damnit! Why did he go?"

"Hmm, well, he had to..."

"Is he okay?"

"I imagine he's great."

"…Did he tell me he was leaving?"

"You were with him the night he left."

"Was I? Were we fighting? Shit. God, was this my fault? Because I told him- I was being…" I sigh. "Any reason you have his guitar?"

"He wanted you to have it."

"What? Have-? Okay, um, do you know where he is?"

Collins gives me his infamous fatherly veneer, surveying my face closely with moist eyes. I try my best not to feel lost. I'm missing something. The guitar sinks heavily into my lap and I am painfully aware of its presence. There is a moment of silence lasts a bit too long, and I fear the thunder in my brain will follow. To my surprise I retain my sanity.

I repeat my question, as Collins is too damn reluctant to answer.

"Well actually," Collins responds, "He really wanted you to come and visit him."


	19. The Denouement

_And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life._

_-The Fray_

------------------------

"Where are we going Collins?" I'm helplessly drowsy and slurring my words, fighting hard not to fall asleep in the front seat of Collins' car. The seatbelt is the only thing holding me up.

Because I haven't properly slept in weeks, haunted awake by my own confusion and blurred uncertainty. I've had nothing but a cramped twin-sized mattress to sleep on, and that fake and narcotic utopian feel of Scarsdale made me a lot more of an insomniac than my drafty and dangerous city apartment. I've been displaced from my life somehow, separated from my friends and my home and…my mind. I trust that if I fall asleep I might never wake up.

But now I'm rescued, in a way. I still don't know where the fuck I'm going and can't make sense of anything, like why I couldn't remember who Collins was or why Roger ran away again and why I wasn't there to try and stop him.

But Collins is Collins, unpredictable and genius, possessing the definite quality of curing a situation. And I trust him to rescue me.

"You can fall asleep if you need to Mark. I'll wake you up when we get there."

"Shit, I _can't_ Col. Unfortunately my body forgot how. I might…freak out on you. I've been having a damn hard time getting to sleep lately…"

Collins looks at me with pity.

"What _happened_ to me Collins? Is there something wrong with me? Or am I just going nuts?"

"Really Mark, if you need to go to sleep you can." There's a biting impatience in Collins' voice. "I can handle it if you 'freak out'."

This _completely_ vexes me so I shake myself awake. "But I don't know if _I_ can handle it! Why won't anyone _answer_ me? I was just held captive in my mom's house! I couldn't remember who you _were _Collins!"

He takes his foot off the gas and the acceleration quiets. We coast a few seconds on the empty highway and I fear I'm going drift off before Collins responds.

"Please go to sleep Mark." His voices echoes and fades. "You need sleep." And with a literally painful sense of déjà vu, I obey.

-----------------------------------------------

As expected, I dream.

Nothing is clear but I hear Maureen, Joanne and Benny sometime later. Parts of the conversation are lost to deeper sleep and misunderstanding.

"How's he doing Collins?" Joanne asks. "You managed to coax him into the car."

Collins clears his throat. "He remembered me…"

Maureen laughs, undaunted.

"Ssh. He had trouble falling asleep."

"Does he know what's going on?"

"Not entirely. He's getting there."

Benny interjects worriedly. "Well shouldn't you wake him up before you get there? It's kinda _sudden_, don't you think?"

-------------------------------------

And then I'm rustled awake and it's just Collins and I. The sequence of time has escaped me once again.

"Hi." Collins smiles. "Sorry. Thought I should wake you up. We're almost there."

I sigh. "You can't tell me where 'there' is, can you?"

"I have orders to let you figure things out on your own."

"Orders." I snort. I don't have the endeavor to question that statement. "Roger didn't run away."

"What makes you think that?"

"He wouldn't let us visit him."

"You're his best friend Mark. You have _absolute_ permission to visit him."

We turn a corner and Collins gives a sharp intake of breath. "Do you want this to be a surprise? Because we'll be there in a second."

"I don't know Collins." My voice is breaking but my mind is coming together.

I close my eyes.

------------------------------

I'm frozen, I'm still sleeping, I'm at a standstill and worthless and overwhelmed and beguiled.

And silent.

Collins turns off the engine and looks over at me.

"Well?"

I stare at the glove box and do not blink and try very hard not to breathe. Maybe I can stay in this moment a few seconds longer- forever- so I don't have to face what I _knew_ _was coming_.

I try meditating.

I aim to lose focus and sound and location, but at the corners of my vision I can still see all the tombstones stretched beyond the hood of the car.

This isn't happening. This is happening.

"Get out of the car Mark."

"Ha ha, you're _sure_ he wanted me to come visit?"

"You _owe_ this to him."

"Fuck."

"Are you gonna get out? Because I will take you home. Decide."

"You gotta get the car door for me." I hold up and uncontrollably shaking hand. "I mean- please."

Collins sighs and nods and gets out.

He rounds the car.

My door swings open.

"There. I'm not coming with you, you know. This is all you Mark."

"Okay." I falter.

"You _know_ you gotta do this."

"I know, I know, gimme…gimme a second."

"Go." He whispers receptively.

"Just a second."

My legs are lead. On purpose.

"Either you get out now and I wait for you, or I bring you back tomorrow and I leave you here."

"Please don't be mad at me."

"I'm not. But he is."

I laugh, because Collins can't possibly know that, and swing my legs from the car.

Before me is the entire salient panorama, the neat and somber rows upon rows of tombstones, the hill, lined with barren trees, and the church with its ominous and weathered steeple. The world meshes gray and white.

It is so familiar it's foreign.

"Oh God."

Collins crosses his arms and unsympathetically walks back around the car. He gets in and slams the driver's door.

"I can't."

"You can't but you have to." He reaches over and slams my door.

The church bells promptly remind me of my paradox, and for a second my hands ache for the weight of the camera, the shield of the lens, the excuse to remember.

He starts the car.

"Wait, wait-" I open the back door and pull the Fender off the seat.

A wraithlike wave of self-hatred beleaguers my every nerve and I almost drop the guitar. Compelled by nothing but guilt and obligation, my foot steps forward, followed by the other, and again, and somehow my head is hung and I'm walking towards the hill.

My jacket is open but I won't zip it, and the guitar slips from my bare hands and drags in the snow.

And my head is thundering. Not with pain but with torment, and it is directed at myself- for my decisions.

The guitar bounces off a rock with a hollow 'thunk' and I resist the urge to just smash it to pieces.

Firewood. I _promised_ myself firewood.

And I also promised I wouldn't _forget_.

---

I am past tears.

I am past devastation.

This happened once already. And it is _my_ fault that I am going through it again.

I am not stunned. This is not coincidence.

And it stopped being torture.

I am past forgiveness and past forgetting. I am not cursed and I am not privileged.

I am past witnessing.

This is reality. This is _closure_.

This is my _responsibility_.

---

I am on top of the hill, looking down upon the bland gray markers of hundreds of people- hundreds of histories. And somehow the headstone at my feet seems like the only mistake.

He was thirty-one.

But he suffered. Thirty-one years of mistakes, and anguish, and loss, and betrayal.

And the cruelest part was that '_Rest_ _in_ _Peace'_ was not inscribed. That would be a lie. A broken euphemism. He is not 'resting' and he's always had trouble believing existence would be any better in the afterlife. I don't know how anyone can. It's the unknown.

I stare at the engraving hard.

It blurs and refocuses but the inscription does not change.

_Roger Davis, August 2nd, 1964- January 16th, 1995_

It says nothing else. It is miserably bare. _Inaccurately_ bare. There is _so_ much more to be said.

And suddenly I'm kneeling, pushed down by the same ethereal compulsion of self-hatred.

"No! I don't _want_ to give in! I want to give _up_!"

…This is closure. This is necessary. You forced yourself to _deny_ it once already, now open your eyes Mark! You're the _witness_…

These thoughts are not mine.

"They're _yours_!" I scream at the frozen ground beneath me. "Shut up! Just fucking leave me alone Roger! _Please_! It was _better_ when I couldn't remember!"

Was it really though?

"I didn't want to _remember_! _You_ fucking helped me along! Why?! Why the fuck would you _do_ that to me?! You said you were hanging on by the thread that _I_ put between us. Well I _cut_ it, alright? We're _done_. You died, and I _stopped_ _thinking_ _about_ _you_. You couldn't go until I _promised_, and I _lied_. I can't hold onto all this grief."

Crushing, the amount of trust we put on one another. It's funny how best friends tend to do that.

"Fuck you."

No, fuck _you_ Mark Cohen. Fuck you for caring. And fuck you for forgetting.

I am going insane. I'm losing my track of my mind and now I'm, "…having a conversation with a tombstone!" My voice resonates in the dead cemetery air.

The guitar that I propped against the headstone slides over the icy granite and settles in the snow beneath with a hollow echo. I stare at it.

I shake my head and laugh, mocking the goosebumps that have risen on my arms. _Roger_ _isn't_ _here_, dumbass. There is no ghostly activity. This is all in my head, the result of blame and trauma.

…And friendship.

There _are_ _no_ voices from beyond the grave. No spiritual guilt trip. I just know Roger too well for my own good.

I feel the onset of tears but instead I scream. I drive my fists into the ground and prepare to _run_ _away_.

This is closure. Finish it. Fix it. What else do I say? What else can I do?

"Do you want this?" I ask no one, nudging the guitar.

The wind whistles in the desolate trees, clacking the branches together. I can hear the purr of Collins' car. My escape, my rescue. I could just get up and leave right now.

You're not done yet.

I want to be so damn belligerent right now Roger. I want to throw a fit. I want to cry. Please just let me cry. Let me go! I want…I _need_ to turn back time. I want to save you.

I find words. The right words.

"I miss you." I admit. It's a confession. An apology.

A promise.

A promise?

I rethink my avowal.

"I'll miss you."


End file.
